


Ignorance is Bliss

by lookimadeahat



Series: The Enigma That Was, The Enigma That Is [5]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Ed's very high and very happy for bit, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, From a therapist who lost her license after becoming a criminal, Future Fic, Gen, Gentle Kissing, Hugs, Kissing, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Murder, Neck Kissing, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oswald is so good to Ed, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Panic Attack, Switching, TW - brief description (literally one sentence) of a suicide, Tags Added as Applicable, Then he's not so happy, Therapy, seems legit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-05-12 04:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 41,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19221478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookimadeahat/pseuds/lookimadeahat
Summary: Edward Nygma is losing his mind.This is part of a series, but can easily be read as a standalone.





	1. Always a Way Out

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter may seem a bit confusing, but Ed's losing it, and it will all make sense later (that's why I'm posting the first _two_ chapters today), so bear with me.  
> Also:  
> ◈ - Denotes a switch between the present and memories  
> And  
> ◇ - Denotes a switch between memories that are not consecutive.

Ed trudged up the stairs in a daze. His head was spinning. There were so many thoughts and visions and _memories_ flying through his mind as he tried desperately to cling to just one of them for more than a second. 

◈

_“What's the last thing you remember doing together before Riddler went incommunicado?”_

_“I think we were going to do a heist?...I...I’m not sure. I—”_

◇

_“My dad used to hit me.”_

_“Oh,_ Ed. _I’m so sorry. I never knew that.”_

◇

_“Looks like Nashton got his ass handed to him.”_

◇

 _“You really are your mother’s son. Your mother was a good-for-nothing, drug addicted whore. You are just like her! Stupid. Sick._ Weak. _”_

◇

_“I promise you, Edward, things will be better. I will make you whole.”_

◇

_“A body! We saw a body!”_

_“...A body?...Was there something remarkable about it?”_

◇

_“We are better off unencumbered.”_

◇

_“He was hanging...from the rafters…”_

◇

_“I doubt he’ll manage to choke out a word this morning.”_

◇

_“I have to go.”_

◇

 _“Please,_ don’t. _Please, Dad._ Please. _”_

◇

_“Ed? Wait, Ed, don’t leave! Just sit back down and we’ll—”_

◇

 _“You never answered me!_ How? How are you here? _”_

_“I told you, I’m here to protect you.”_

_“That’s not an answer!”_

◈

He reached the top of the stairs. Where was he? He didn’t recognize this building.

◈

_“If she saw you now, she’d kill herself all over again.”_

◇

 _“You aren’t_ thinking, _Ed! There’s always a way out.”_

◈

He continued walking down the corridor anyway, too tired– _distracted_ –to put much effort into deciphering where he was and why he was here.

◈

_“You think you want to die? Go ahead...But when you regret your decision as you suffocate on your own spite, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”_

◇

 _“So, tell me, can you keep a secret,_ Dad? _”_

◇

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◇

 _“You were panicking. You were hurting. And the only reason I’m_ here _is to save you from the pain. Harold caused you pain, and now he is gone.”_

◇

 _“You aren’t_ thinking _, Ed!”_

◇

_“Ed-Ed what are you doing?”_

_“Ed’s not here right now.”_

◇

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◇

_“Where is Ed?”_

◇

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◇

_“He’s...sleeping. I thought I’d take over, let him have a night off from the beatings. I was going to take it for him, but do you know what I realized?—”_

◇

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◇

_“There is no reason for me to get a beating when I can give one instead.”_

◇

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

Edward knocked on the door in front of him. Why was he knocking? Where was he?

◈

_“The less of me you have, the harder I am to hold. What am I?”_

◇

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

He knocked again. One, two, three.

◈

_“Your tone does not instill confidence.”_

◈

Knock, knock, knock. One, two, three.

◈

_“Trust me. The last time I saw Harold, the only thing he was suffocating on was his own incompetence.”_

◈

Knock, knock. One, two.

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

Where was he?

◈

_“To plan B, then.”_

◈

Knock, knock, knock. One, two, three. Knock, Knock. One, two. Knock, knock, knock, knock—

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” echoed an irritated rasp from behind the door. Was it really echoing?

Where was he?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

The click of the lock.

Where was he?

◈

_“Why that sap feels a modicum of anything other than malice towards you is beyond me, but I don’t want to ruin our relationship so soon.”_

◈

The slow turn of the doorknob.

Where was he?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

 

“Riddler?” echoed a gravelly voice.

Ed was able to detect shock in the tone, despite its distant reverberations. He looked down through the warping haze.

“Jim?”

◈

_“What’s nowhere, but everywhere, except where something is?”_

_“Nothing.”_

◇

_“Without fingers I point, without arms I strike, without feet I run. What am I?_

_“You’re a clock. I know it was you, Ed.”_

◇

_“I was your friend.”_

_“Were you, Jim? Were you my friend? Or did you just pity me?”_

◇

_“How about one last riddle, for old time’s sake?”_

◈

“What are you doing here, Riddler? What’s the game?” the Commissioner questioned apprehensively. Ed laughed. He didn’t know why he was laughing, but he was. He couldn’t stop.

 _Why_ was he here?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◇

_“The less you have, the more they’re worth. To friends.”_

◈

Ah. So that’s why. He laughed even harder. Even after all this time, all they had done to each other, deep down he considered Jim a friend.

“Nygma? Are you alright?” Gordon sounded genuinely concerned. Was he getting farther away? Ed laughed even harder.

Why was he laughing?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

“Ed?”

Why was he laughing?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

“Ed, just _calm down_.”

◈

_“Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.’”_

◈

“Why don’t you come inside—”

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

“—I’ll make you a cup of coffee—”

◈

_“The numbers are a little off here, but I think the sentiment still applies.”_

◈

“—we can sit down—”

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

“—and talk about...this.” 

Why was Jim being so nice? Ed didn’t move, _couldn’t_ move.

Why was he laughing?

Oh. He wasn’t. He was crying.

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

“Oh my God,” Ed whispered. The blood was rushing through his ears so loudly he couldn’t hear himself speak, “Oh no, oh no, no, no, no, no, no.”

“Ed, we should really sit you down.”

“No, _Jim,_ I–Oh my God, I—”

◈

_“Well! That was **fun**.”_

◈

“I killed him.” The confession was barely audible. Barely distinguishable from the crazed mumbling pouring from the distraught man. “Oh my God, I _killed him!_ ” Ed screamed.

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

“Who did you kill, Ed?”

“My–my—”

Was the floor tilting? Why was the floor tilting?

◈

_“I’ll have to try it again sometime.”_

◈

“I’ll have to try it again sometime.” He looked up at Jim with wide, glassy eyes.

“What do you mean? Who did you kill?”

“Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. The numbers were wrong, but the sentiment was still applicable.”

 _“Ed?”_

“My mother was German. Did I ever tell you that?” His eyes were glazed over. “He knew he wouldn’t keep a secret, so he had to die.”

“Who, Ed?”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which he?”  
Before Jim could formulate an answer, Ed’s mind switched tracks again.  
“My mother was a good-for-nothing, drug addicted whore. Just like me.”

Why was the floor tilting?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

The room was spinning too.

“One of us had to die. I chose me, but he chose him. He won.”

“Who did you kill, Ed?” The question was slow, every syllable enunciated, as Jim grabbed Ed’s arm and looked him in the eyes.

“Dad.”

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

Why was the room spinning?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

Why was the floor tilting?

◈

_“There’s always a way out.”_

◈

Why did everything go black?

“There’s always a way out...It was the only way out.”

Ed’s unconscious body plummeted to the ground.


	2. One Hell of a Wakeup Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Nygma is losing his mind.

Jim had been sleeping—the key word there being _had_. He was roused from his slumber by an insistent knock on his apartment door. At first he planned to ignore it, but the knocking continued to grow louder and more erratic as the minutes passed. That’s when he noticed the _time._ When he glanced at his clock, he’d expected it to say it was six or seven in the morning; instead he was greeted with a glowing green: **3:29 AM.** So, the person knocking was either in danger or planning to kill him. _Fantastic._ Thank God Barbara Lee was staying with her mother tonight. He groaned as he rolled out of bed. He didn’t bother to dress, deciding that if it truly was someone who was in danger, he’d kept them waiting long enough. Jim simply grabbed his gun from the bedside table–just in case–and approached the door in his tank top and boxers.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grumbled as the knocking persisted. As he unlocked the door and turned the knob, he moved the gun to the right of the door frame, just out of view from whoever was waiting on the other side of the door once he opened it. He flipped the safety off his gun when he saw who was standing on the other side. The sight that greeted him was not one he was expecting at all. 

_“Riddler?”_ Jim was unable to stop the pure shock he felt from seeping into his voice. The Riddler was close to the bottom of the list of people he was expecting to see on the other side of his door. The Riddler in the _state_ he currently seemed to be in was not even on the list. He clicked the safety back on as he studied the man before him. This was not the criminal mastermind he had become accustomed to after years of elaborate schemes and never-ending puzzles. This wasn’t even the forensic scientist he recognized from the GCPD. This was something else entirely. The man before him was disheveled, to put it mildly. He was clad in a green suit, Nygma’s current definition of casual wear, the jacket of which was hanging halfway off one of his shoulders. His usually pristine hair was in hopeless disarray, his glasses were crooked, and his tie and hat were missing, as was one of his shoes. The man’s entire body seemed to be shaking uncontrollably, and he wasn’t even looking at the Commissioner; he was just staring at the floor mumbling to himself. 

“Jim?” When the criminal mastermind looked up, he seemed just as surprised as Jim was. 

Jim didn’t trust it for a second, and his finger twitched by the safety, ready to disengage at a moment’s notice. “What are you doing here, Riddler? What’s the game?” 

When he caught a glimpse of the Riddler’s eyes his apprehension vanished. They were unfocused and red, a dazed and glassy sheen over them. He clearly had no clue where he was. Was he sick? High? He didn’t think Ed did drugs, but he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he’d been drugged by an enemy? The Riddler certainly had plenty of those, so it wasn’t too far of a stretch. And then the man started laughing. Jim stared at him in utter bewilderment, and that’s when he realized Ed wasn’t laughing at his question. The question hadn’t even registered. What the Hell happened to him? 

“Nygma?” He tried again, “Are you alright?” 

He got no response. The man in front of him just continued to mumble incoherently. 

“Ed?” Maybe he was doing that thing that Lee had told him about...Switching? Was that what she called it? He tried to meet Ed’s eyes with no luck. And then Ed’s delirious laughter turned into delirious sobbing. He needed to get the man help, but first, he needed to get him out of the hallway and into his apartment. “Ed, just _calm down,_ ” he requested in his most placating voice. 

How was he going to get Ed into his apartment? He did _not_ want Ed to see his gun. Who knows what would happen if he saw a gun in such a fragile state. True, he could be completely oblivious to it, just as he seemed to be to everything else at the moment, but Jim didn’t want to risk what could happen if he wasn’t. He needed to come in of his own volition. “Why don’t you come inside?” Jim coaxed, “I’ll make you a cup of coffee, we can sit down and talk about...this.” 

Jim thought he may have finally broken through whatever fog Ed was in when the man met his eyes, but his hopes were soon dashed as Ed let out a panicked, “Oh my God. Oh no, oh no, no, no, no, no, no.” 

“Ed, we should really sit you down,” Gordon insisted, taking a slow step closer to Nygma. The man met his gaze with such a horrified expression that it caused Jim to recoil slightly. 

“No, _Jim,_ I–Oh my God, I—” Ed’s red-rimmed eyes locked on Jim’s. He wasn’t _really_ looking at the man in front of him, though. He was looking straight through him at some unseen monstrosity. The words that left his lips almost were too quiet to make out. _Almost._ It was barely a whisper. Only a breath. “I killed him.” 

Jim was about to respond when Ed’s eyes focused on the man in front of him and he screamed, “Oh my God, I _killed him!_ ” 

The Commissioner closed his eyes and sighed deeply, a weight bearing down on his chest with excruciating persistence. For the first time in a long time he felt true sympathy for the man in front of him. “Who did you kill, Ed?” 

“My–my—” he froze, stumbling forward slightly. Jim waited quietly, unsure of what to do. Should he just wait? Should he—  
“I’ll have to try it again sometime.” 

He’d never seen Ed look as lost—as _unhinged_ —as he did in that moment. Jim wondered if Edward Nygma had finally gone insane. Truly insane. Never-going-to-recover isane. “What do you mean? Who did you kill?” 

“Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead. The numbers were wrong, but the sentiment was still applicable.” 

_“Ed?”_ Jim was losing the last fragments of hope he had. He needed to get to a phone. Call Arkham. No. Call a _friend_. But how could he do that? How could he get to a phone? How could he leave for even a second when Ed was like _this?_

“My mother was German. Did I ever tell you that?” Jim paused. Ed had never mentioned his family before. Honestly, Jim had never given any thought to Ed’s family; who they might be, what they might do, where they were from. Suddenly, Ed’s eyes switched from glassy and emotional to utterly blank. “He knew he wouldn’t keep a secret, so he had to die.” 

“Who, Ed?” 

“Which one?” 

“What?” 

“Which he?” And there it was. A brief spark. Ed was _there_. Ed was back to reality for a mere second. But before Jim could reply, could take advantage of the situation, Ed was lost to his mind again, “My mother was a good-for-nothing, drug addicted whore. Just like me.” 

Those words pained Jim more than he could have ever expected. Ed was addicted to drugs? Was this recent or from a long time ago? Why did he think his mother was a whore? Why did he think _he_ was a whore? 

Ed took an unsteady step towards him and Jim tensed. “One of us had to die. I chose me, but he chose him. He won.” Ed whispered it like a secret passed between children on the playground. 

Jim softened, reaching out to grab Ed’s arm in a gentle grasp, hoping it would do something to ground the man. He met Ed’s eyes with an unwavering gaze and asked slowly, methodically articulating each and every syllable, “Who did you kill, Ed?” 

Edward met his eyes, a broken, distraught contortion marring his face. “Dad.” 

Ed killed his father? No wonder he was coming unglued. How? Was he pulling off a heist and his father was an unsuspecting passer-by caught in the crossfire? Was it revenge? Spite? 

He felt a shaky hand grasp his arm tightly. He realized his mind had wandered off as he tried to wrap his head around the information he’d just received. Jim looked up and met Ed’s tormented stare. The younger man had tears cascading down his cheeks as he frantically searched for a way to clarify his confession, “There’s always a way out,” he explained. 

Jim gave a tight-lipped nod. It was the best response he could manage in the moment. 

“It was the only way out,” Ed choked in a peculiarly contrite whisper, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed in a heap on the floor. 

The Commissioner gawked at the scene before him. This was one Hell of a wakeup call. He dragged the Riddler’s limp frame into his apartment as gently as he could, closing and locking the door behind them. Once he maneuvered the infamous criminal onto his couch, Jim pulled out his cellphone. He prayed for forgiveness as he typed in a number and pressed ‘dial’. 

“Hey. It’s Jim. Look, I’m sorry to wake you, but I need you to come to my apartment as soon as you possibly can.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are enjoying this so far! If you're looking, for Oswald and Lucius, don't worry. They'll show up in the next few chapters.


	3. Foxy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize that this is out later than planned. I had a friend pass away this week and was at the funeral.

As Lucius approached the Commissioner’s apartment, he wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d received plenty of emergency calls from Jim Gordon late at night, Bruce Wayne as well, but he had never been called at quarter of four in the morning with a request for his immediate presence. When he reached the well-worn door of the apartment, he knocked six times, using the quick pattern he and Gordon agreed to use to identify each other’s presence easily. Lucius heard footsteps approaching the door, and he steeled himself for whatever he may see or hear once he entered the apartment.

Nothing could have prepared Lucius for the sight that greeted him. As the door swung open, he was greeted by the sight of Commissioner James Gordon, the stern moral authoritarian who was _the_ shining beacon of hope for the reform of Gotham’s corrupt law enforcement, standing in his boxers with a flask in his hand, and the Riddler, one of the most notorious criminals in all of Gotham—which was really saying something with the likes of the Joker running around—unkempt, contorted into a horrifically unnatural position, and fast asleep on the Commissioner’s couch. This was not how Lucius expected to start the day.

“...Um…”

“Look, Lucius, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know who else to call.”

“It’s, um…” his gaze trailed off to the sleeping criminal mastermind behind his friend, “It’s fine...Do you want to tell me why he’s here? Or…”

“Why don’t you step inside,” Jim offered. Lucius hadn’t realized he’d been standing frozen at the door. He shook himself from his shock and nodded, entering the apartment as Jim closed the door behind him.

“So…” Lucius said as he looked over at the sleeping figure on the sofa. He waited for Jim to answer, and when he got no response he decided to do the heavy lifting himself, putting on the best professional, unaffected, and least judgmental tone he could muster, “Do you want to explain why you have one of Gotham’s Most Wanted unconscious and contorted like a Russian gymnast on your couch at four in the morning and why you chose to call me, specifically, about this...predicament?”

“Nygma showed up here...maybe half an hour ago? He was really out of it and, honestly, Lucius, he was hysterical—more so than I’ve ever seen him. I don’t think he even knew how he got here. I mean, I hope I’m wrong, but…” he trailed off, “I...I can’t call Arkham. Not yet. Not while he’s like this. He’s _distraught._ He needs help. Real help. Not the pathetic excuse for ‘therapy’ they give at Arkham.”

Lucius took a moment to mull over what he’d just been told. He could see Jim felt sympathy for the man, something that was exceedingly rare for any criminals—personal history or no—to receive from the Commissioner nowadays. “Alright. So why did you call me? And where is Lee?”

“Lee’s staying the night at the room above her clinic in the Narrows. Work ran late today. That’s part of why I called you. I need someone to check him out. I don’t know if the state he’s in is because of a mental breakdown or because he’s on drugs or _both_ or neither. You and Lee are the only people I know who can do a proper assessment and won’t turn him over to Arkham immediately. I would call Lee, but...they have a... _history_ ,” Jim spat out the word reluctantly, “And I know they’re on friendly-ish terms now, but given the state he was in when he showed up here...I just don’t know how he’d react to seeing her, and I don’t want to risk him doing something to her or himself if it upsets him. Plus, there’s the other reason I called you, specifically,” Jim quirked a teasing smile as he looked Lucius in the eyes, “He’s always seemed to like you... _Foxy.”_

Lucius chuckled at the nickname Nygma _insisted_ on calling him. “Alright then. I didn’t bring the proper equipment with me, though, and I can’t exactly run a blood test to see if he’s taken anything here. Would you be okay with me trying to wake him up? It will be much easier if he can tell me whether or not he took something.”

“Lee keeps some equipment in the house at all times. Just in case. And if you can do any assessments without waking him up, I’d prefer you do those first. It was...unnerving to see him like that,” Jim said, pulling a large suitcase out from a closet and bringing it over to Lucius.

“Can you tell me about his behavior when he showed up? I mean, we are both aware he’s not normally...sane, so I’m rather concerned that _you_ found his behavior disturbing,” Lucius replied, accepting the suitcase and placing on the large table in the kitchen. He unzipped it and began to look through the supplies. It was stocked well enough to handle everything from a splinter to an uncomplicated gunshot wound. He truly admired the way Lee was always prepared.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry I forgot to tell you. It’s just a lot for four in the morning.”

“Is that why you’re drinking? It is a bit early to start, don’t you think?” Lucius asked, gesturing to the flask that he hadn’t seen leave Jim’s hand since he’d entered the apartment.

“At this point? No.” Jim answered with a chuckle.

“Oswald would admire your cavalier attitude,” a voice croaked out from behind them, “He always says the social standards on acceptable drinking hours are absurd.”

The two men spun around to see a disheveled Edward sitting up on the couch, looking at them. Lucius could sense the immediate tensing in the man beside him, and he looked the criminal in front of them over, trying to assess his current mental state.

“How are you feeling, Ed?” he inquired.

“Migraine,” Ed groaned, “Why am I here? Did you drug me?” he questioned as he leaned forward and laid his head in his hands, strangely sounding more exhausted than accusatory.

“Any nausea, dizziness, confusion?”

“Aw, Foxy, are you worried about me? I’m touched, truly.” The clearly intended sarcasm fell short of its mark, since the only tone of voice Ed seemed capable of mustering was ‘tired-and-in-pain.’

“You didn’t answer my question. Should I take that as a ‘yes’ to all three?” Lucius challenged.

“Nor you mine. Should I take your response as a ‘yes’ as well? I’m fairly certain drugging me would break a few laws.” Ed retorted, meeting Lucius’ gaze. His eyes were sunken in, squinting, and surrounded by reddish-purple bags.

 _“Ed,”_ Jim warned.

Ed swivelled his head to glare at Jim, only to yelp in pain at the sudden movement and drop his head, cradling it in his hands. 

“Are you alright?” Lucius asked, taking careful, measured steps towards the man on the couch.

“I would think that confusion would be obvious, considering I don’t know how I got here,” Nygma hissed through a tightly clenched jaw, “Dizziness, check. Nausea...I don’t _think_ so...but I’m not entirely sure at the moment.”

“You really don’t remember a thing about coming here?” Jim questioned, doing his best to hide the concern on his face but not managing to conceal it entirely.

“No...Why haven’t you called Arkham yet?”

“Don’t worry about that right now,” Jim replied. Ed lifted his head and stared at the two men in front of him suspiciously. Not wanting to let the situation get any more awkward, or to give it the opportunity to get dangerous, Lucius grabbed some of the medical supplies from the table and quickly approached Ed once again.

“Can I do a brief neurological assessment, Ed?” Lucius asked. Ed looked at him, seemingly searching Lucius’ face for something, and, after a moment, gave a slow, hesitant nod. Lucius started with the basics: heart rate, blood pressure, temperature—all of which looked good. “I’m just going to ask you a few questions regarding your memory of tonight, okay?”

“Sure,” Ed responded unenthusiastically.

“Do you remember how you got here?” The man in front of Lucius looked at the ground, gritting his teeth as opposed to answering. “If you don’t remember, that’s alright. You can take some time to think about it, or we can move on and come back to it later.”

Ed met Lucius’ kind gaze. That’s when Lucius realized there were tears welling up behind the criminal’s eyes. “Why are you being nice to me?”

Lucius and Jim—who had gone to refill his flask—stopped. Edward didn’t sound distrusting or angry; he just sounded confused and...scared.

“You’ve had a rough night,” Jim answered, “It’s only fair.”

Ed seemed even more confused by this response, but he seemed to decide to drop the issue, opting to close his eyes and lean back against the couch instead of pressing the topic further. 

“What is today’s date?” Lucius continued with his questioning as he walked towards the suitcase to gather the penlight and reflex hammer.

“Wednesday, September 20th,” Ed replied without a beat.

This made Lucius pause. He turned around, forgoing the tools he had planned to get. After a moment of debating himself, he gave in. “Are you sure?”

Edward didn’t open his eyes, but Lucius could see his eyebrows furrow before he replied, “...Yes.”

He walked back over to Ed and sat on the coffee table across from the couch, putting them on the same level. “Have you consumed any drugs in the past twenty-four hours?”

 _“What?!”_ Ed exclaimed, opening his eyes and lurching forwards, roughly seizing the collar of Lucius’ shirt with shaking hands, “No! I would _never._ I don’t—You can’t—”

“Ed, relax,” Lucius tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible. It wasn’t easy to even pretend to keep his cool, considering how close Ed’s hands were to his neck and Ed’s history of strangulation.

“No! I can’t _believe_ you would accuse me of-of—”

“I promise you, it’s a standard question when someone is missing time,” he assured Ed nervously.

“Missing time?” Ed went rigid, his grasp loosening ever so slightly. Suddenly, his hands moved to Lucius’ tie, tightening it until it was putting an uncomfortable—though not deadly—amount of pressure on the scientist’s windpipe. _“Missing time?”_ he repeated, his voice dropping to a growl, “I am _not_ missing time.”

“It’s October 10th, not—”

“No!” Ed shouted, pulling the tie even tighter around Lucius’ throat.

“Ed-Ed, what are you doing? We can talk about this. Don’t do anything you’ll regret,” Lucius choked out. His lungs felt unbelievably tight. 

The look in Ed’s eyes changed; they looked blank, cloudy, unfocused. He started mumbling to himself, absentmindedly continuing to increase the pressure on Lucius’ windpipe. “Ed? _Ed?”_

Lucius vision started to go, and he feared that he was going to die here, at the hands of Edward Nygma. And at that exact moment, Ed slumped forward—a syringe sticking up from his neck. _Jim._ Thank God, _Jim_. In his panic, he’d completely forgotten the Commissioner was there with them, that they were in his apartment. 

Lucius sat up, loosening his tie, “Thank you.”

“No problem...So, what do we do now?”

“I was hoping you’d know, considering you’re the one who injected him with…?”

“Ah. Yeah. I was just trying to keep him from killing you. It’s a fast-acting knockout drug. I don’t know which one. He’ll be fine, just...loopy when he comes to.”

“How do you know how to use a knockout drug properly?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh...Lee’s used it on me a couple of times. To keep me from going out when I was injured pretty badly,” Jim admitted with a sheepish grin.

Lucius looked down at Edward’s limp body, slumped against him. As he reached down to remove the syringe, Lucius felt his hand brush something cold and metal on the underside of Nygma’s shirt collar. He set the syringe to the side and popped the collar of Edward’s shirt to find whatever his hand had brushed. It revealed a small, silver lapel pin. “How interesting.”

“What? What are you doing?” Jim questioned, bewildered.

Lucius leaned in closer to better examine the pin. It was flat, easily hidden by the shirt’s collar—either intentionally designed that way or chosen because of it. He stared at the pin for several minutes, trying to discern what the pin was made to look like. It was an odd shape, that was for certain, but he would have to be closer to it to determine what it was. Lucius didn't relish the idea of being any closer to Nygma than he had to be, but he didn't want to risk ignoring the pin if it was something that could help them figure out what was going on with the Riddler. As he got closer, Lucius was finally able to discern what the shape was meant to be: It was a small umbrella with a tiny amethyst on its tip. Lucius sighed. “I think I know what we need to do next.”

“Great!” Jim replied, “What is it?”

“You’re not going to like it.”


	4. One Hell of a Wakeup Call Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this early to make up for the long break between chapters 2 & 3, so I hope you enjoy it!

Waking up at an ungodly hour was already irritating. Waking up to the sight of Commissioner James ‘I’m-Better-Than-You’ Gordon over his _bed_ at an ungodly hour was infuriating. Walking out of his room with said Commissioner to be greeted with the sight of his... _roommate_...seemingly high as a kite and embracing a devilishly handsome scientist _far_ too closely was downright enraging.

“What the _Hell_ is going on?!” Oswald screeched. This caused Ed to attempt to dislodge himself from the twisted mess of a hug he was giving Lucius Fox. Unfortunately, his long limbs caused him to fall face-first onto the dining room carpet as soon as he managed to disentangle himself from the scientist. 

If Oswald wasn’t so angry, he might have laughed. He glared at Lucius, only looking to Ed’s sprawled out frame on the floor when he noticed it start to move. Ed flipped himself over and looked up at Oswald positively _beaming._

“Ozzie!” he squealed with all the excitement of a toddler on Christmas day.

This was...odd. “What did you do to him?” he snapped at the two men opposite him and the giggling mess that was currently Edward Nygma.

“Nygma showed up at my apartment about an hour ago. He was really out of it and—” Jim started.

“I’m sorry— _What?!”_ Oswald snapped, “He went to _your_ apartment?”

“...Yes. I—”

“You disappear for _three days_ without a trace or _any_ form of warning and, when you finally decide to come back from _God_ knows where, you go to _James Gordon_ for help?!” he yelled at Ed, positively seething with anger and bitterness. That’s when Ed started crying...yet again acting like a toddler. Oswald didn’t really know what to do with this unrestrained display of emotion from the man. “What are you—Don’t cry. Stop. This is making me uncomfortable, Ed. Stop crying.”

“Wow. You’re great at this whole comforting thing, aren’t you, Penguin?” Jim quipped.

Oswald spun on his heel to face the Commissioner, not bothering to put on his usual faux-politeness. It was too damned early for that. “I will ask you again, Commissioner: What the _Hell_ is going on? Is he on _drugs?”_

He had added the last part fairly sarcastically, so Oswald was quite shocked—and angry—when Lucius responded affirmatively. “Yes. Well...sort of.”

 _“Sort of?”_ Oswald hissed, hobbling closer to loom over the man, and, despite being several inches shorter, he inexplicably managed to do so, “Did _you_ drug him?”

“He was about to strangle me—” Lucius began when Jim interrupted.

“Ed was already distraught when he showed up. He calmed down, but it seemed like he was going back to whatever place he was in when he showed up. I was concerned that he would hurt Lucius or _himself_ if I didn’t intervene. Drugging him was the only option that didn’t have potential long-lasting consequences,” Jim explained.

“There was nothing else you could do? Like—I don’t know—threaten him or something? He would have listened to a threat!” he shouted. There was no way Oswald could keep a calm facade. His anger bubbled over into every syllable.

“He was angry with me and he seemed like he might kill me—” Lucius started, only to be interrupted once again.

“Oh, yeah, you were in serious danger,” Oswald scoffed and rolled his eyes, “I could tell as soon as I came in here. What with the way he was clinging to you like a middle school girl clings to her first boyfriend.”

“I promise, that’s not—”

“The after effects of the drug seem to be making him rather...affectionate right now,” Jim interjected.

“Why am I even trying at this point?” Oswald caught Lucius grumbling under his breath.

James continued on, either unaware or uncaring, “But earlier he was aggressive, and sedating him seemed like our least worst option.”

“Uh-huh,” Oswald said flatly, “And why did you bring him here?”

“He does live with you, does he not?” Lucius inquired.

“When he’s not...working, yes, he does reside at the manor,” Oswald admitted.

“Since that assumption was correct, I am hoping this next one will be correct as well: You know how to help him when he’s...out of it, right?”

“What do you mean ‘out of it’?”

“Jim? Can you answer that? You saw more than I did.”

“Sure,” the Commissioner supplied, “He was mumbling to himself. He was definitely not all there. It was like he was switching between reality and...I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t reality.”

Ed was in a _really_ bad place, then. Oswald was already dreading this. “Well, thanks to you ‘helping’ him, we have to wait for the drugs to wear off before we can do anything. He’s in no state to help himself or anyone else right now.”

As if to prove his point, Ed, who had fortunately stopped crying, giggled and grabbed the Penguin’s pant leg. He then wrapped his arms around Oswald’s knee and hugged it to his chest before looking up at Oswald. “Ozzie,” he whispered with wide eyes, “You have nice legs.”

“Thank you, Ed,” Oswald answered in a fashion similar to that of an exasperated parent appeasing their overly-excited child.

“They are the best legs in all of...everywhere,” Ed gestured around the room wildly.

“Great,” Oswald deadpanned, the sarcasm flying right over Ed’s head, “I’ll make sure to put that on my business card.”

Ed’s eyes grew wide as saucers, “That is a _great_ idea!”

Oswald bit his lip to keep from going off, and, with semi-contained frustration replied with a clipped, “Yes,” before turning back to Jim and Lucius. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Perhaps we should let him sleep it off?” Lucius suggested.

“That’s a good idea,” Jim confirmed.

“Very well,” Oswald huffed, “Why don’t you all go home and leave me to clean up the mess you brought me,” he gestured sharply to Ed, “Just like you always do.”

“That’s not exactly fair.” Oswald shot Jim an irate glare, causing his _old friend_ to backtrack quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. We just thought that you may have some idea of how to help him,” Jim placated.

“And why do you care what happens to him? Why not call Arkham? Why not throw him in a cell for the night until he calms down? This concern seems a bit out of character for you.”

“I couldn’t do that to him. Not with the way he was when he showed up at my apartment. He was...He deserves something better than Arkham to help him with whatever he’s going through.”

“Wow, you finally managed to find a soul after all these years. Better late than never, I guess,” Penguin derided, “And what _is_ he going through? You’ve neglected to mention anything about his behavior other than the fact that he was ‘out of it’.”

Jim glanced at Ed, who was currently studying the carvings on the wood of the dining room table with rapt attention. “Oswald, I think I could use a drink. Do you have any wine _in your kitchen?”_ he raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

“You know what? I could use a drink as well, old friend. Please, follow me,” Oswald gestured to follow him and started walking towards the kitchen with Jim in tow. Lucius seemed to pick up on what they were doing and stayed with Ed. Penguin led Jim down the long hallway to the kitchen, throwing the door open and letting Jim through before slamming it behind them. He immediately hobbled over to one of the cabinets and retrieved a whiskey and two glasses.

“I wasn’t serious about the drink—”

“You don’t think I know that?” Penguin snapped, “But, given that this is how I’m starting my day, I’ll be damned if I don’t take advantage of the opportunity. Care to join me?” he filled a glass with far more whiskey than strictly necessary and offered it to the Commissioner.

“Why not,” Jim accepted the drink, instantly taking a large gulp.

Oswald poured himself a glass, drank the entire thing, and refilled it before speaking again. “So? What didn’t you want him to hear?”

“I don’t know if he remembers right now and I don’t want to set him off—”

“That sounds like an explanation, not an answer,” Oswald groused, taking another large sip of his whiskey.

“Fine...Ed killed his father.”

Oswald choked on his drink. _“What?!”_

“Or, at least, that’s what he told me when he was so upset.”

“Oh, dear God.” Oswald desperately hoped that Jim—or Ed—was mistaken. He was already at a loss when it came to helping a crying Ed. He didn’t know how to help with something like _that_. He set his whiskey down wordlessly and filled a kettle to put on the stove.

“Penguin? Are you alright?”

He turned on the stove and went to the cupboard to get a teacup and saucer. “I am fine. I understand that Ed is most definitely not. So, this is what we are going to do: You and Mr. Fox are either going to stay in the dining room and not move a muscle until I come get you or you are going to go outside and wait in your car until I come get you. I am going to talk to Ed, _privately,_ and see if I can get more of a grasp on the situation. I’m going to do it before he rests, because he might be more open about things while the drugs are still in his system.”

Jim nodded, “Okay. We can do that...What are you doing?”

“Ed likes ginger tea,” Oswald replied by way of an explanation. They stood in silence for a brief moment, waiting for the water to boil, when Oswald brusquely straightened and walked over to a drawer, retrieving pen and notepad. “Here,” he said, dropping the items beside Jim, “Write down anything I need to know before talking to him. If there are questions you think I should ask him, write them down. I’ll decide if they’re necessary or not.”

Jim set to writing down as much information as he could recall about Ed’s arrival and behavior at his apartment. He finished just as the kettle began to whistle. Oswald poured the tea into the cup and read the notes as he waited for it to steep. After he finished reading, Oswald picked up the cup of tea, folded Jim’s notes and placed them in the pocket of his robe, and downed the rest of his—and Jim’s—whiskey before exiting the kitchen with Jim close behind. When he entered the dining room, Oswald saw Edward ‘The Riddler’ Nygma in his undershirt, with his shirt and jacket discarded on the floor nearby for no apparent reason, and trying to pickpocket Lucius Fox while higher than Mount Everest. He was failing miserably. Oswald took a deep breath and put on his best comforting smile, gently calling out, “Hey, Ed?”

“Shhh!” Ed whirled around, looking incredibly annoyed that his pickpocketing mission was being interrupted.

Penguin bit his lip, trying not to laugh. “I brought you ginger tea. Your favorite, remember?”

And just like that, Ed abandoned his drugged-up attempt at petty theft, rushing over to take the tea from his... _friend._ “Thank you!” he reached out to grab the cup.

“Ah, ah,” Oswald tutted, moving the tea out of his reach, “Why don’t you come upstairs with me and you can have your tea up there?”

“That’s where the bedrooms are,” Ed rattled out rapidly. It was unclear whether he was scared, attempting to be seductive, or just trying to confirm that there were indeed bedrooms upstairs. There were three other men in the room and three different interpretations of what Ed meant.

“...Yes...It is…” Oswald started, not sure how he was supposed to respond to that, “So...Do you want to go up there and have your tea? Or?”

“Sure,” Ed shrugged.

“Great...Let’s pick up your clothes and then we can go,” Oswald offered, “Jim and Mr. Fox are going to stay down here, okay?”

“Okay.” Ed swiftly picked his shirt up off the floor and grabbed Oswald’s free hand, holding it tightly as he dragged Oswald up the stairs to have a conversation the Penguin really didn’t want to have and the Riddler was completely unaware they were going to have.


	5. Inadvertent Ignorance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an important note at the end of the chapter.
> 
> ~ * ~ Denotes a change between Ed-focused and Oswald-focused POV.
> 
> Also, I apologize for any spelling/grammar errors if there are some. I didn't have the time to read through this chapter very thoroughly after making some edits.

Ed watched Oswald close the door to the master bedroom and move to sit on the bed. He motioned for Ed to sit beside him, so Ed complied. Ed sat beside Oswald for a moment, sipping his tea happily while swinging his legs back and forth. This was nice. He felt good. He felt quite warm, though. Maybe he should take off his undershirt too? But that would be a lot of moving. And his arms felt kind of like Jell-O. But he was also very hot. He set the tea down on the bedside table, fiddling with the buttons on his previously discarded button-down shirt as he decided what to do. Oswald was being so quiet. Why? Had Ed done something wrong? When? Ed _really_ wanted a donut. He wasn’t sure why he wanted a donut—he wasn’t exceptionally fond of them—but right now he really wanted a donut. Having a donut would be such a great way to start his day...or end it? What time was it again?

“What are you doing?” Oswald’s voice drew Ed from his thoughts.

“Huh?” Ed looked down and realized he was halfway through taking off his suit pants, his undershirt already discarded on the floor. “Oh. I’m hot.”

“Do you mean you _feel_ hot or you _are_ hot?” Oswald teased.

And that, _that_ was the funniest joke Ed had heard...maybe ever. He laughed uncontrollably for more than a minute. Oswald was laughing with him, but it didn’t seem genuine. “Wha’s wrong, Oz?” Ed slurred, patting Oswald on the shoulder—awkwardly, due to the frustrating lack of coordination in his Jell-O arms. Ed huffed in frustration. “I want a donut,” he pouted.

 _“What?”_ Oswald burst out laughing, genuinely this time.

Ed wasn’t entirely sure why Oswald was laughing, but it made him feel happy and bubbly inside, so he started laughing too. After a few more moments, their laughter died down. Ed shifted his position so he was facing Oswald’s side and wrapped his arms and legs around the shorter man’s torso like a monkey clinging to a tree, burying his head into Oswald’s shoulder.

“Hello,” Oswald said with a small giggle.

“Can you get me a donut?” Ed asked, looking up at the man he was wrapped around with the sweetest, most innocent puppy-dog eyes.

“You really want one?”

Ed nodded enthusiastically, bumping his nose on Oswald’s bony shoulder. “Ow!” he squeaked.

Oswald looked down at him, smiling sweetly. He hooked his finger under Ed’s chin, guiding Ed to look up at him, and placed a gentle kiss on Ed’s nose. “Better?” he asked, to which Ed nodded. “Good. Alright, how about I make you a deal?” Oswald offered, “I am going to ask you some questions. If you can answer them honestly, I will get you a donut as a reward. Does that sound fair?”

“Is it a game?” Eward asked excitedly.

“...Sure.”

“Yes! I want-t to play!” Ed enthused.

“Great,” Oswald said. He was smiling, but the smile looked...funny. Ed had a gut feeling it wasn’t a happy smile. He felt Oswald begin to peel him off of his body. He released his hold on Oswald, resuming the position he was in prior to hugging Oswald—sitting beside him, facing out, with his legs dangling off the bed. Oswald put a hand on Ed’s knee and began rubbing it gently...almost soothingly? “Now, some of these questions may not be ones you want to answer, but it will be good for you to answer them, even if it’s...hard for you. You can take as much time as you need to answer the questions, and I’ll be right here through all of it, okay?”

“...Alright,” Ed responded, hesitantly. Then, with a slightly petulant whine added, “Ozzie, you’re making me nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Oswald reassured him. Still, Ed’s uneasy feeling only continued to grow.

~ * ~

Once they were in his bedroom, Oswald closed the door. He stared at it for a moment, trying to calm his thoughts, before limping over to his bed and taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. He did not want to do this, but he knew he needed to. Oswald looked up at Ed, making eye contact with him for the first time since entering his bedroom and patted the space beside him in invitation. Ed, likely unintentionally, moved towards the bed in some wobbly parody of a waltz. Oswald was jostled slightly when Ed plopped down beside him, cheerfully sipping on his ginger tea without a care in the world. He sat silently, mind racing. He didn’t want to ruin Ed’s happiness. It took Oswald several minutes to break the silence, and the thing that caused him to speak wasn’t exactly the result of him mustering up the courage to just bite the bullet and get the conversation over with...It was Ed taking off his pants.

“What are you doing?” he asked, completely baffled as to why Edward seemed to have decided it was a good idea to strip. Sure, they were in a relationship—not that anyone else knew that—but they generally didn’t go around stripping down in each other’s presence.

“Huh?” Ed met Oswald’s eyes with a befuddled expression, then looked down and seemed surprised to notice that he was in the midst of taking off his pants. “Oh. I am hot.”

That made Oswald laugh a bit internally. He decided to tease the man a little bit, “Do you mean you _feel_ hot or you _are_ hot?”

Ed burst out laughing, which in turn made Oswald laugh as well. Apparently he was quite the comedian to his completely strung out companion. And that made Oswald’s laughter fade a bit. He felt terrible for what he was about to do. He was abusing Ed’s trust. He was tricking him. _Manipulating_ him. He was _taking advantage_ of Ed’s impairment. Did it really matter that he was trying to help? What kind of a person does that to someone they love? It made him feel sick to his stomach. Ed must have noticed the change in his demeanor, because Oswald suddenly felt Ed’s hand clumsily patting his shoulder in an attempt at comfort and asking, “Wha’s wrong, Oz?”

God, Oswald loved this man. He was about to respond when he heard Ed let out a frustrated puff of air, then—

“I want a donut.”

 _“What?”_ The hilarity of Ed’s random request, for a food Oswald was pretty sure he didn’t even like, pulled Oswald out of his contemplation. Oswald nearly doubled over, he was laughing so hard, as was Ed. As their giggles started to subside, Oswald felt Ed wrapping his lanky frame around his torso and nuzzle his head in the crook of Oswald’s neck. He chuckled softly, “Hello.”

Ed pulled his face back and looked at Oswald. He knew Ed wanted something, because Ed was obviously trying very hard to give him the best puppy-dog eyes possible. And damn, was he good at it. “Can you get me a donut?”

“You really want one?” Oswald inquired, disbelieving. Ed gave an eager nod. Chances were, Ed would forget all about the donut in a couple of minutes as long as Oswald could distract him. If Oswald couldn’t distract him...Ed would fixate. And if Ed was fixated on something and high, there was no way they would be able to have the conversation they needed to have until Ed got that donut. Unless…

“Ow!” Ed squealed as Oswald felt something hard, most likely Ed’s nose, bump his shoulder. He guided Ed to look up at him with a finger beneath Ed’s chin, and placed a short, light kiss on Ed’s nose.

“Better?” he asked, and Ed nodded in confirmation. “Good. Alright, how about I make you a deal?” Oswald closed his eyes briefly and prayed. He wasn’t one to pray often, but he did every once in a while, when he was desperate. He liked the idea of God looking out for him and forgiving him when he made mistakes. And today...Today, Oswald knew he was going to need forgiveness for what he was about to do. “I am going to ask you some questions. If you can answer them honestly, I will get you a donut as a reward. Does that sound fair?”

“Is it a game?”

“...Sure,” Oswald replied. Ed sounded so excited, so _trusting;_ it made him feel even more guilty.

“Yes! I want-t to play!” Ed nearly tipped them over as he positively vibrated with glee at the prospect of playing a game.

“Great,” Oswald replied, trying to smile convincingly, though the guilt and heartache he felt made it difficult. He gently removed Ed from clinging to his frame, setting the tall man beside him, like they were prior to Ed’s sudden display of affection, and placed his hand on Ed’s knee. He rubbed Ed’s soft skin lightly and, he hoped, soothingly. “Now, some of these questions may not be ones you want to answer, but it will be good for you to answer them, even if it’s...hard for you. You can take as much time as you need to answer the questions, and I’ll be right here through all of it, okay?”

“...Alright...Ozzie, you’re making me nervous.”

“Don’t be.” Oswald gently grabbed Ed’s left hand with his free hand, bringing it to his lips and placing a short, gentle kiss on it. He released Ed’s hand from his lips but kept holding it as he lowered their hands to the bed. He took his other hand off of Ed’s leg to clasp Ed’s hand between both of his own, gently tracing circles and swirls on the top of Ed’s hand with his thumbs. “Do you remember coming here today?”

“Yeah, of course I do,” Ed scoffed, his intoxicated state even more obvious when he did, “I was outside of the car, and then Foxy asked me if I could get in the car, so I got in the car. And then we came here. Foxy’s suit is really soft. He's perfect for hugs, did you know that?”

“No,” Oswald said curtly, trying to keep himself from getting jealous, “No, I did not. So, what happened before you got in the car with Mr. Fox?”

 _“Foxy,_ Ozzie,” Ed corrected with a playful slap to his arm.

Oswald grit his teeth, reminding himself that any frustration on his part, no matter how small, was not going to help Ed get through this. “I’m sorry. What happened before you got in the car with... _Foxy?”_ he spat out the nickname begrudgingly. 

“Not sure,” Ed shrugged with a placid smile on his face. At least Ed seemed unaware of how much using the nickname irritated him.

“Okay,” Oswald began slowly, mulling over how to continue from there. Ed would usually be upset if he didn’t remember...these drugs must be _very_ effective in calming him down. “Why don’t you walk me through your day, from yesterday to today?”

“How much detail?” Ed asked.

“Just generally what you’ve done. I’ll ask for more detail on anything I think warrants further attention.”

“Ooh, so serious. I like it! Alright...I woke up a 6:12 AM—three minutes before my alarm,” Ed added proudly, “I then took a shower, brushed my teeth, and made myself breakfast—”

“And where did you wake up? Where’d you stay?” Oswald interrupted.

“Is this a trick question?”

“No?”

“Here, Silly! I thought I woke you up when I got out of bed. I’m glad I didn’t; I was trying to be quiet,” Ed beamed.

That was wrong. Ed hadn’t been home in days. Damn. He did _not_ want to have to tell Ed that he was missing time...Unless...No. He’d only use that if he absolutely had to. Realizing he’d been quiet for too long, Oswald shook his head clear and forced a smile onto his lips, “Continue.”

“After breakfast I went to the museum to stake it out, make sure all my blueprints and notes were accurate. Everything was good...except...something wasn’t right...What was wrong?” Ed’s eyebrows knit together, concern starting to lace his features. “What was wrong? What was wrong? What was wrong?” Ed muttered to himself, absentmindedly hitting his thigh— _hard_ —with his fist repeatedly.

Oswald knew Ed did that when he had to think about something harder than he felt he should need to. Oswald also knew that he didn’t want Ed to get a nasty bruise. He really didn’t want to do it, but he knew that pointing out what Ed was doing never stopped Ed from hitting himself for more than a few seconds and it could jar him out of that. It could also speed up this process. Oswald had no clue how much more time he had before Ed would need to sleep and Ed was going to be stuck on a loop now. He he had to do it. Putting on a mask of mirrored confusion Oswald looked back at Ed, “You don’t remember?”

“Ye—No. I remember. I’m sure I remember. I-I know it. I do.”

“Maybe you should ask Riddler? See if he took over when he was helping you with something and pushed you too far back by accident?”

“Yes!” Ed’s eyes lit up, and, just like that, he stopped pounding his thigh with his fist. After a minute or so of silence, Ed’s expression clouded and he closed his eyes in concentration. “I can’t feel him. Anywhere...He’s…” Ed’s eyes flew open in panic, “He’s not here. He’s not here!”

Oswald put his hand on Ed’s back, stroking up and down in a comforting motion, “Ed, it’s okay. I’m su—”

“No! Oswald, you don’t understand. He’s _gone!”_ The drugs didn’t seem to be doing anything to relax Ed now.

But Oswald did understand. Oswald knew this was exactly what would happen when he suggested asking Riddler. And Oswald had done it anyway. He felt awful. But he had to push a little more. Just a little. He was doing it to help Ed. Oswald took a deep breath, trying to force out his sympathy with the exhale. “And why is he gone, Ed?”

“I don’t know!” Ed shouted, snatching his hand out of Oswald’s and jerking away from Oswald’s soothing strokes on his back.

“You do know, Ed,” Oswald countered, keeping his voice as unaffected as he could manage. Oswald understood that Ed was rejecting his touch in response to the stress of this situation, but it still stung. It stung every time Ed was hurting and wouldn’t let Oswald comfort him.

“No, I don’t!” Ed snapped back, “I have no _idea_ why he—”

Oswald could see the realization in Edward’s eyes when he froze. Ed was shutting down. Ed was closing into himself. It physically pained Oswald to see vacant expression taking over Ed’s face. His heart hurt. His stomach felt hollow but so filled with pressure at the same time. He felt sick. “This is _for_ Ed,” he whispered to himself, “He said he wanted Riddler back. He said it didn’t matter how he got him back, as long as he was back. This will bring him back...right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, cliffhanger. Don't worry, the next chapter will be out Friday.  
> Also, I have two directions this story can go. I wrote parts of both, thinking that I'd have an obvious favorite...I don't.  
> SO, to help me decide...Do you all want to see more of Ed's headmates? Like look at if Riddler isn't Ed's only alter, just the only alter who Ed and those around him are aware of, and the only alter who fronts frequently? Leave a comment and let me know!


	6. (Re)Realizations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING - This chapter does contain a description of Ed stumbling on the body of an OC/minor character who committed suicide. The description is not remotely graphic and only one sentence is dedicated to it, but if that's triggering to you, I would suggest proceeding with caution.
> 
> Note - Some of Ed's dialogue is in italics this chapter, while Riddler's is in normal font. This is because Riddler is in charge and Ed is hanging back in his head; Ed's dialogue is changed back to regular font when Ed gets control.

◈

It all started because Larry Petrescu made an error. A rather egregious error. What was the point of paying off a security guard who could neither secure a shift on the night of the heist, nor obtain an accurate copy of the museum’s security camera layout?

Riddler had been far more delighted by the misstep than Ed would have liked. He’d taken control of their body, leaving Ed in the passenger seat, whistling as he strolled to Larry’s apartment building, where he planned to teach the man a lesson. Ed was fine with Riddler having control for this. After all, he was still able to see and hear everything happening, as well as give his input—welcome or not. Ed found himself getting bored as Riddler began to go about breaking in, so he decided to brainstorm a new exit strategy now that their old one was not an option. By the time Ed tuned back in, Riddler was picking the lock on the door of Larry’s apartment.

_“That was fast,”_ Ed noted with an approving hum.

“Thank you,” Riddler grinned, “But do you ever expect anything less than excellence from me?”

_“If I answer that, there won’t be any room left for me up here,”_ he teased, _“Your ego already takes up an outrageous amount of space.”_

“Would that be such a bad thing?” Riddler shot back facetiously, clearly enjoying the banter. At that moment, the lock clicked. “And we’re in.”

Ed could feel Riddler’s excitement hum through their body, coursing around Ed as he sat back in their mind. It made him excited too.

_“Wait,”_ Ed demanded as Riddler walked through the door and closed it behind him.

Riddler let out an irritated huff as he withdrew his gun. “What?” he snapped.

_“I want to be co-controlling for this.”_

“You’re already co-conscious,” Riddler replied breezily.

_“I know you heard me correctly. I want to join in on the_ fun, _Riddler. Don’t be difficult,”_ Ed implored.

“Fine,” Riddler conceded.

Ed felt himself moving forward, closer and closer to the outside world, until he was _there_. A wide, predatory grin stretched across their face. This was going to be _very_ enjoyable.

They readied the gun, creeping carefully through the apartment to find their prey. They’d searched the whole apartment, aside from the bedroom, with no luck. As they approached the bedroom, Ed could feel Riddler pulling the knife from their pocket as well, and Ed couldn’t disagree with the choice—a knife was so much more... _personal_. And considering he was _personally_ hurt that Mr. Petrescu had put so little effort in obtaining the museum’s security camera layout, he felt that a personal method of killing seemed quite fitting. They opened the door.

The sight that greeted them was unexpected, to say the least. Larry Petrescu was hanging from the exposed rafters on the ceiling, his skin a sickly bluish-gray. Ed was frozen in shock...As was Riddler, it would seem...or...Riddler was pulling back. Why was he pulling back?

“Where are you going?” Ed called out. No response came. His eyes drifted once again to the corpse in front of him. It felt so familiar. When he found his father...his father. His _father._

As soon as he thought of his father, Ed’s head started to hurt. The room around him started to flicker between Larry’s apartment and...his childhood home. And then there was no apartment. Just a small townhouse in Waterbury, Connecticut, littered with beer cans and tattered furniture.

◇

His father was sitting in the chair. Ed—not Ed, _Riddler_ —was grabbing the metal baseball bat from beside the door. The metal crashed into his father’s head, knocking him into the floor.

_“Edward? Is that you?”_

_“Not exactly.”_

Riddler was yanking his father’s belt off, folding it over one, two, three times.

_“Ed-Ed, what are you doing?”_

_“Ed’s not here right now.”_

_“W-What?”_

_“Ed is not. Here. Right. Now. I always knew you were an imbecile. Are you deaf now as well?”_

The belt came down on his father’s leg, hard, a resounding smack! echoing around the room.

_“Where is Ed?”_

_“What?”_

_“You said Ed isn’t here. Where is he?”_

_“He’s...sleeping. I thought I’d take over, let him have a night off from the beatings. I was going to take it for him, but do you know what I realized? There is no reason for me to get a beating when I can give one instead.”_

Then came the real beating. Fists, feet, and belt bombarding his father with no reprieve. Riddler was talking. Ed’s dad was talking. Ed couldn’t process any of it. He just stood stock still, watching the scene before him play out with horror. The thing that drew Ed from his state of utter shock was the weak, terrified voice of his father.

_“Why are you wearing gloves?”_

_“I’ve come to realize that Ed won’t like that I’ve hurt you. Why that sap feels a modicum of anything other than malice towards you is beyond me, but I don’t want to ruin our relationship so soon. I’m not entirely sure he’ll be ready to accept everything I have to offer right away, and hurting you will likely damage the trust I’ve managed to build with him thus far. So, tell me, can you keep a secret,_ Dad?” 

_“...Yes?”_

His father’s reply was weak, unconvincing.

_“Your tone does not instill confidence. To plan B, then. Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.’ The numbers are a little off here, but I think the sentiment still applies.”_

And the belt was around his father’s throat. And he was struggling against the taut leather. Riddler wouldn’t give in. And then his father stopped struggling. Riddler stood up and stared at Ed’s father’s now-lifeless body.

_“Well! That was **fun.** I’ll have to try it again sometime.”_

Ed’s vision went white.

◇ 

And Ed was back in that same apartment, but it was daytime. He stood back and watched his eighteen-year-old self question Riddler. Question his father’s murderer. How had he missed it at the time? It seemed so obvious in hindsight. A few key moments flashed through his brain: _“I doubt he’ll manage to choke out a word this morning.”_ He should have known when he found his father’s body. Hanging. Choking. _“Trust me, the last time I saw Harold, the only thing he was suffocating on was his own incompetence.”_ His dad hadn’t had enough presence of mind to convince Riddler that he wouldn’t tell Ed what happened, so Riddler killed him. _“Don’t hold your breath. If your lung capacity is anything like Harold’s you’ll be six feet under pretty quickly.”_ When Riddler had said that to him, it made Ed questioned if Riddler had somehow killed his father. Ed even asked him outright. Later he’d berated himself for being idiotic enough to believe that Riddler could do something like that. But he’d been _right._ God. How had he been so blind? Ed turned his attention to the conversation unfolding in front of him. 

_“So, tell. Me. What. You. Did.”_ Ed was demanding from his spectral counterpart.

_“God, so demanding. Fine. I took over. Is that what you want to hear?”_

_“Why did you think you had_ any _right to—”_

_“Because you were about to have a mental breakdown, Ed! You were panicking. You were hurting. And the only reason I’m_ here _is to save you from the pain. Harold caused you pain, and now he is gone. And, thanks to me, you didn’t have to deal with the aftermath of that._ I _called the police to come pick up the body,_ I _answered the questions when the police took us down to the station, and_ I _saved you the_ trauma _of having to remember the feeling of holding your father’s lifeless body in your arms._ I _did all of that because I_ protect _you! Whether you want to admit it or not,_ I _am the reason you are still standing here today._ I _am the reason you survived this Hell for the past eighteen years and_ I _will make sure you survive whatever fresh Hell the next eighteen bring. So don’t tell me that I don’t have the right. I have_ every _right.”_

All those years ago, those words had made Ed feel connected to Riddler. Made him feel like he _understood_ Riddler. Now the only thing he felt was burning hatred—an all-consuming fire that made him want to hurt. To _destroy._

◇

He was back in Larry’s apartment, and he was _fuming._ Ed could feel himself being pulled back, back, back. And he _fought_ it. Riddler was not going to push him back. Riddler did not get to control anything. Not today.

◈

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you found this chapter interesting! Today will be a double chapter day - I'll probably post the second this evening - since, because this chapter was primarily flashbacks, a large portion of the material will be familiar to those who read my fics _The Genius Next Door_ and _Peace._
> 
> And, just a reminder, leave a comment to let me know whether or not you would like this fic to focus on Ed having a larger 'system' (more personalities than just him and Riddler) if you have an opinion and haven't left a comment already.


	7. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oswald is so good to Ed.
> 
> Also, I mention 'triggering' Ed out in this chapter. For anyone who doesn't know, in people with DID different alters can often be triggered to front (basically be in charge) by things they like. Obviously it's a bit more complex than that, but that's the brief summary.

Oswald waited in silence. He glanced at the clock in the corner. It had been thirty minutes. He kept watching Ed for the slightest change, but there was nothing. Ed wasn’t moving, his eyes were glazed over, and he had a vacant stare focused firmly on the wall. Hell, if Oswald wasn’t paying such close attention, he wouldn’t even be positive that Ed was _breathing._ And that attention helped him catch the tipping point.

Ed’s breaths started speeding up, ever so slightly, becoming shallower and closer together. For the first time in that long thirty minutes, Oswald put his hands on Ed. He gently rubbed circles across Ed’s back, knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to bring him out of his catatonic state, but it would still comfort him. Suddenly, Ed started shaking. His light, shallow pants becoming choked gasps for air, as if he was suffocating.

Oswald needed to get Ed back to reality. He racked his brain for the triggers he used to get Ed back...but he hardly ever needed to trigger Ed. Ed was almost always just...there, nowadays. Oswald felt his own heart rate increasing as he tried to remember something, anything that would get Ed out of his trance. And then it hit him. _Affection._ Gentle touches, light kisses, and words of praise and validation. It really wasn't surprising that Ed was responsive to expressions of love and validation; it was what he wanted most in life.

Oswald wrapped his arms around Ed, pulling him into a gentle but firm hug. He rubbed Ed’s back soothingly as he began to place feather-light kisses along Ed’s neck. In between his soft, chaste kisses, Oswald began to murmur compliments and affirmations. _Edward, my beautiful little Riddle, you are so good. You are so smart and strong. I love you more than I love anyone else on this earth. You are the very embodiment of what it means to be a remarkable man. I love you, Edward. You are so good. I love you. You are so good, Eddie. You are so good._

After a few minutes of this, Edward came out of his daze, shooting forward with a start. The force of him jerking forward wrenched Ed from Oswald’s arms. He stood up and stared at Oswald, his eyes wide and panic-stricken, his whole body still trembling violently.

“Ed, it’s okay. I’m right here. It’s okay. Everything is going to be okay,” Oswald assured, standing and walking to Ed, gently placing a hand on his arm and leading him back to the bed.

Ed didn’t say a word, just stared out in front of him, possibly in a state of shock. Oswald pulled back the already rumpled covers and sat Ed down on the bed. He fluffed up one of the pillows, guiding Ed to lie back. Oswald limped over to the other side of the bed and climbed in beside Ed, who immediately rolled from his back to his side—facing away from Oswald. That didn’t deter Oswald, though. He slid closer to Ed, pulling him back against his body and enveloping him in a loving embrace with one hand while stroking Ed’s hair with the other. Ed melted into his comforting embrace and broke down. Oswald could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Ed cry. He was fairly certain he had only seen Ed cry, or the aftermath of Ed crying, five times prior to this after nearly a decade of knowing the man. And now Ed was sobbing with abandon. It broke Oswald’s heart. He took his hand out of Ed’s hair and used it to wrap the distraught man in an even tighter hug. Once again, Oswald started to pepper Ed’s neck with brief, gentle kisses, whispering consolations in between them.

“Everything will be okay. I’m right here. I will protect you, just like you’ve protected me in the past. It might take some time, but you will get through this. _We_ will get through this. Together.”

“Ozzie?” Ed’s voice was a broken whisper, barely audible through his sobs.

“Yes?” Oswald asked. He stopped sprinkling kisses along Ed’s neck and turned his full attention to the man in front of him.

“It _hurts,”_ he whimpered.

Oswald's heart sank. “I know, Ed. I know it hurts. But if anyone can get through this, it will be you. You are so strong. I believe in you, and I will be here to support you. I love you so, so much, my brilliant Enigma, and I will do anything I can to help you get through this.”

Ed abruptly pulled Oswald’s arms off himself and rolled over to face Oswald, turning and wrapping him in a smothering hug. “Thank you,” he whispered into Oswald’s ear, “Thank you so much...I love you.”

“I love you too,” Oswald breathed, returning Ed’s embrace with just as much vigor. They lay in silence for several minutes before Oswald finally spoke. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I...I’m not sure,” Ed replied honestly. After a few more minutes of silence, Ed spoke again. “How much time am I missing?”

“What?” Oswald asked, taken aback.

“What I...remembered...when I was _checked out_ a minute ago...It makes me think I must be missing time. Before, when you were asking me questions, I said today was the day after I went to stake out the museum for the heist. That’s not true, is it?”

Oswald sighed. “Three weeks. You went to the museum three weeks ago.”

Ed’s eyes grew wide with alarm. “Three weeks?”

“Three weeks,” Oswald confirmed.

“Have I been...gone all that time?”

Oswald took a deep breath and sat up. Ed mirrored his actions. “No. Not exactly...I knew you wouldn’t be able to find Riddler earlier. I’m so sorry for deceiving you. About three weeks ago, you went to stake out the museum in the morning and came back about eight or nine hours later. You told me you were missing time. You said you remembered going to the museum and checking that all your information was accurate, but after that, everything was blank until you woke up in a cab headed back to the manor. You also said you couldn’t get a hold of Riddler. He’d just up and disappeared. You told me you felt uneasy about it, because Riddler hadn’t mentioned anything about taking a break. We talked for a while, you asked if I could help you try to trigger him out; it didn’t work. You decided he must have really needed a break, and he’d probably be back in a day or two. After a week he still wasn’t back. You were really upset. You told me that you wanted him to come back. You didn’t care how it happened, you just wanted him to come back. As time went on, you were getting more and more upset about it—you weren’t working on any projects, you were barely sleeping, you only ate if I brought you food and sat in front of you to make sure you ate it—and you were looking into ways to get him to come back. Four days ago, I woke up and you were gone. You left me a note. It wasn’t even a riddle, it just said, _‘Going away for a while, be back eventually.’_ Today's the first time I’ve seen you since then. You showed up here with James Gordon and Lucius Fox, because, apparently, you showed up at the apartment of the _police commissioner_ at three AM this morning, totally unaware of your surroundings and mumbling incoherently.”

Edward sat, quiet and expressionless, as Oswald relayed the brief summary of his missing time. He turned to Oswald, studying his face intently, before he seemed to come to some sort of a conclusion. “I want to speak with Jim Gordon.” 

Oswald wasn’t exactly thrilled with this request, but he wasn’t exactly surprised, either. He gave a small, sober nod. “Alright...Would you like to put the rest of your clothes back on first, though?”


	8. The Cold Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delayed upload! Real life hit me like 20 tons of bricks this past week, and once that was sorted out, my internet went down for three days because of a storm and subsequent flooding that kept people from being able to get to the stuff to fix it. But I'm back! And I'll be posting extra to make up for it!

Jim and Lucius sat side by side in his car, silently, save for a few failed attempts at lighthearted conversation. Jim was beginning to wonder why the Hell he had agreed to wait for Oswald to come get them. He had a job to get to. Lucius had a job to get to. Why should they be wasting their time here? Ed wasn’t their problem...But that wasn’t fair. Ed wasn’t a problem. Ed was unwell. That’s why he was staying. That’s the only reason.

They had been sitting in the car for nearly two hours when Jim finally saw Oswald hobbling out of the mansion towards them. It always amazed Jim how the term ‘hobbling’ seemed to imply a lack of speed for everyone except Oswald. Jim wouldn’t have been certain it was Oswald approaching the car, obscured as he was by the harsh and blinding light of the sunrise, if not for his distinct gait. The Penguin moved with shocking swiftness and dexterity for someone with such a pronounced limp. Though, to be fair, Jim knew very few people with a limp as pronounced as his old friend’s; perhaps this was typical. As Oswald approached the car, Jim noticed he had changed into a suit, and he was thankful for the change. It had felt like some sort of an invasion of privacy to see Oswald in his robe. Good God, what was wrong with him today? He suddenly cared a lot more about the comfort and well-being of criminals than he normally would, and ever would like to. Was he getting soft?

Jim was drawn from his thoughts by the jarring rap of fingers on his window. He rolled it down. “How’s Ed?”

“He’d like to speak with you,” Oswald reported, seeming a bit irked.

“Okay. Where is he?”

“Inside. He’s changing,” Oswald pulled open Jim’s door, gesturing for him to exit. After Jim got out, Oswald poked his head in to address Lucius, “You’re welcome to leave at any time Mr. Fox. I’d be happy to call a car around for you.” His tone was clipped, the formality of forced politeness barely spared any effort, only the smallest hint of something akin to congeniality gracing the Penguin’s words. Between his lack of response to Jim’s earlier question and his lackluster attempt at infusing his typical charm into his words, Jim had a feeling that Oswald’s talk with Ed had not gone well.

“I’d appreciate that, Mr. Cobblepot,” Jim heard Lucius reply. “And you’re sure you won’t need me again?”

“I will contact you if we do. I’m sure you can make yourself available for a friend in need, Mr. Fox,” there was an unspoken but unmistakable threat behind Oswald’s statement. And it _was_ a _statement,_ not a question. Lucius wisely opted to nod and not pursue an argument. “Wonderful. Jim,” Oswald said, spinning on his heel, “Follow me.”

Jim dutifully followed the man back up the long driveway, towards the estate. Even from a few feet behind Oswald, Jim could see the tension blanketing his slight frame. They walked through the door and Oswald immediately turned left, leading them to the living room. As Jim walked through the doorless entryway, his eyes fell upon Ed, who was pacing back and forth rapidly, seemingly trying to decide whether or not he should sit in a chair or on the couch.

After a few minutes, throughout which Jim and Oswald stood still, awkwardly quiet for fear of alarming Ed, he finally realized they were there. He seemed fairly startled by this development, “Jim!”

“Hi, Ed. How are you feeling?” Jim said, trying to maintain a casual air to his tone, though he knew he was likely failing from Ed’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Take a seat,” he ordered, gesturing to the chair beside him as he sat down on the couch. As Jim walked over and sat down, he noticed Oswald moving to sit in another chair, only to be silently stopped by Ed gesturing for him to sit beside him on the couch. After they were all seated, Ed turned the entirety of his focus to Jim. “What did I tell you?”

Straight to the point. Alright, then. “When?”

“When do you think?”

Jim grimaced. Ed seemed more like himself, both a blessing and a curse, but not enough of a curse for Jim to want to send him spiraling back to the state he was in this morning. “You were...very disoriented when you showed up at my apartment. You were mumbling a lot. It was hard to follow.”

“But you did follow it,” Ed challenged.

Jim tilted his head noncommittally, hoping to come up with a response that would allow him to avoid telling Ed everything before he had to speak. After a minute or so, Jim carefully replied, “To a degree...I understood a lot of the words, but they didn’t make sense out of context. It was really just a lot of nonsense.”

“Stop!” Ed shouted, slamming his fist down on the coffee table between them.

“What?” Jim asked, confused.

“You know what you’re doing,” Ed growled, “You’re avoiding giving me a straight answer to my question. Just tell me what I told you!”

Oswald had remained oddly quiet, and that’s when Jim realized that Ed already knew—or at least thought he knew—what he told Jim. As he met Ed’s irate gaze, Jim felt his heart sink. He was self aware enough to know that reading people wasn’t his greatest talent—one of the many reasons he was grateful for moving beyond the role of detective—but even despite that, he could see a desperate fear hiding behind the anger in Ed’s eyes. A fear that screamed, _‘Please, please tell me I’m wrong.’_ But what else could he do, other than tell the truth? Penguin knew, and he had a feeling that Ed would find out sooner or later if he didn’t know already. Jim took a deep breath, unable to look Ed in the eyes as he quietly admitted, “You told me you killed your father.”

Jim looked up when he heard a sharp inhalation of air from Ed. As Jim looked at the two men sitting on the couch, he felt that both he and Oswald were equally concerned with the reaction in front of them: Ed, shaking, ghost pale, and clenching and unclenching his fists. Oswald reached out, gently placing a hand on Ed’s arm. That seemed to be a mistake. With a strength and agility Jim had no idea he possessed, Ed grabbed Penguin’s arm, wrenched it above his head, and forced Oswald to lie back against the sofa via a chokehold around his throat.

“Ed,” Jim said, in his most gentle and placating voice as he cursed himself internally for forgetting his gun in the car, “Ed, you need to let go of Oswald. Can you do that?”

Ed gave no response, only tightening his grip on Oswald’s throat, leading to a choked gasp escaping from the Penguin as his airway was constricted even further.

At that moment, Harley Quinn and Ivy Pepper appeared in the doorway.

“Dear God, Ed! What the Hell?!” Harley shrieked.

Ivy rushed over to the pair, not giving Jim a second glance as she produced a vial of greenish-purple liquid from her purse, popping off the cork lid and holding it in front of Ed’s nose.

Whatever it was, it seemed to help. Ed shot back, releasing Oswald, looking both frightened and baffled by the scene around him. Almost like he didn’t understand what was happening. Maybe he didn’t. Jim watched as Ed looked back and forth between the other people in the room, freezing and tensing his muscles immediately when his eyes fell on Harley Quinn. 

Ed slowly turned to Jim, and, in a quiet but sure voice, said, “I think you should go, James.”

Jim nodded, a bit apprehensive, but clearly outnumbered, and obediently made his way out of the mansion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also added a new fic to this series. It's now in the first spot, as it is the first chronologically. I'll be adding another one today or tomorrow that will take the spot in the series right before this fic. These are sort of a 'Sorry, I couldn't upload for like a week and a half' thing.


	9. Therapy for a Rogue Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are actually getting 3 chapters today. Get hyped.  
> 2/3

**3 Days Earlier**

◈

“Just make yourself comfortable. You can sit anywhere,” Harley offered, gesturing around the living room. Ed paced between chairs and couches noncommittally before finally selecting a beige armchair in front of the coffee table and taking a seat. 

“Thank you,” Ed said quietly, not making eye contact.

“It’s not a problem, Ed,” Harley replied with a kind smile as she took a seat in the chair adjacent to his. Her smile fell slightly as she noticed Ed’s tense demeanor and reached out to place a comforting hand on his knee, “You know we don’t have to do this today if you aren’t ready, right? We can wait a few days or we don’t even have to do it all. This is—”

“No!...I—I want to do this. I _need_ to do this,” Ed interrupted, “I’m just...nervous.”

“That’s perfectly natural. Now, before we start...Ivy is here.”

Ed could feel the panic start to course through his veins. “What? Why? Where?”

Harley held up a placating hand as Ed made to get up, “She is just in the other room, and I can tell her to leave now or at any time during the...session? That feels kind of formal, but I guess—”

“You’re getting off topic,” Ed mumbled.

“Oh, right. Sorry! I just asked Ivy to come here to supply some _herbal assistance_ to help with those nerves if they start to get the best of you.”

Ed eyed her suspiciously. “Ivy,” he called, “Come here.”

Ivy appeared from around the corner, carrying three vials of varying colors in her hands. She sauntered over and took a seat on the couch across from Ed, flashing him her most charismatic smile.

“I know what you’re thinking, Ed,” Harley started, “But Ivy is not going to use something like _this_ against you. Ever. Right, Ives?” Harley asked with a somewhat menacing glare directed at the redhead. 

“I promise. I won’t use anything I hear today to hurt you. Well, if you choose you want me to stay that is.” Ed looked her up and down, clearly unconvinced. “Look, Ed—I like you. I really do. You’ve grown on me over the years like a glittery green weed. You are one of the few humans I’d still use my plants to help and not hurt. I swear to you, I will not use this against you.”

Ed sighed, mulling it over. He knew Ivy’s potions could be helpful if anything too upsetting happened, and, as loath as he was to admit it, he trusted the woman. After a long pause, he finally replied, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Harley and Ivy questioned in surprised unison.

“Okay,” he affirmed, “But neither of you can tell Oswald I was here. Deal?”

“Deal,” both women agreed without hesitation. Perhaps that should have concerned Ed, but he was too focused on getting this over with.

“Alright then. Are you ready?” Harley asked, picking up a notepad and pencil from the table in front of her.

Ed took a deep breath and nodded. As he prepared himself for whatever was to come, he reminded himself that honesty would be necessary, even if it was painful. But it wouldn’t be painful...Right?

“Yes,” he breathed, rather surprised by the exhaustion and weakness in his voice. Fantastic. They hadn’t even begun and he already sounded pathetic.

“Great. Before we get started, just to clarify, you are here because Riddler went AWOL for no apparent reason and you want him to come back, correct?” 

Ed was surprised by the ease with which Harley seemed to be able to return to the demeanor she used in her life prior to crime: gentle and intrigued, but otherwise disconnected from the situation. A sounding board that would absorb everything he had to say, reflecting back the things he needed to hear every so often. Sure, the word choice was far more Harley Quinn than Dr. Harleen Quinzel, but her tone and body language had a much calmer feel to them than the bubbly, slightly spastic quality they held only moments before. The switch was so stark and sudden; he wondered if this was what it was like for others when his emotions changed abruptly. Oswald had told him that he could be rather terrifying with the way his emotions could come, go, and change as though it took a mere flip of a switch to erase the emotions he had felt before and replace them with something entirely new. It took Ed a moment to realize that he’d wandered off and was probably taking far too long to answer her question. “Oh...Oh! Y-yes!” he stammered “Sorry! I just...got distracted.”

“That’s fine,” Harley assured him with a disarming smile, “So, how do you want to start this? I want you to feel comfortable. If you feel more comfortable leading the conversation, I’m happy to let you take the reins. If you want me to lead, I can guide the conversation.”

“You have more...experience in this area than I do. Taking that into consideration, I suppose letting you lead the conversation will most likely lead to productive results in a more time effective manner.”

“So, you’re saying you want me to lead the conversation?”

“Yes.”

“Great. We’ll start with the basics. Mental health history and such. How much experience have you had with therapy in the past, aside from Arkham?”

“None...or, very little.” Ed shifted nervously in his chair, “Um, in college I...I talked to someone for a little while. I also talked to someone a few years ago. Only for a few months, though.”

“Okay. I know Arkham isn’t the best most _reliable_ source of a diagnosis, but would you mind telling me what diagnosis they gave you? And, if you’ve received any other diagnoses from somewhere else, would you mind sharing those with me as well?”

“No. Um, I don’t mind. At Arkham, I was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. I believe that diagnosis was incorrect. I was _not_ paranoid when I got sent there. At least, not in a delusional sense. All of my suspicions were well-founded and based in reality.”

Harley paused for a moment when she heard this, seemingly trying to determine the best way to phrase her next sentence. After a moment, she carefully proceeded, “Um, so, you believe the diagnosis was incorrect because of the part relating to paranoia?”

“Yes.”

“And not the part relating to hallucinations?”

“...That is accurate, yes,” Ed almost whispered as he stared intently at his lap.

“So you were hallucinating?” Harley confirmed. Ed nodded. “Do you still hallucinate?”

“Not so much. Just...occasionally.”

She nodded and wrote on her notepad. “Did you receive other diagnoses anywhere else?”

“Dissociative identity disorder and post traumatic stress disorder. Also, manic episodes not followed by depression, but that isn’t a recognized diagnosis.”

“Dissociative identity disorder? So Riddler is an alter?”

“Yes. What did you think he was?”

“It was hard to tell. But, then again, I’ve only known you for a few years. Though, based on this information and what I know from knowing you, it seems you and he have good communication, yes?”

“Yes.”

“How did you find out about him?”

“Well, he would show up sometimes. I’d see him in mirrors or in shadowy corners.”

“Were you aware he was an alter?”

“Not always. I was aware he could... _take over_ before I even knew what DID was. Riddler and I had a lot of disagreements, and it caused a lot of issues. A couple years ago, Oswald found me a therapist. He noticed—Well, it doesn’t matter—But the therapist helped me and Riddler learn to coexist consistently. I didn’t see him for long, but it...helped...Honestly, I avoided learning about DID for a long time after my diagnosis. It’s weird, I always want to know as much as I can about...everything, really. But with this...it took me years to read beyond the basic information of what DID was. When I finally did it, it was only because Oswald encouraged me to. He’d read about it. So had Riddler.”

“So, Riddler knew about DID? Did he ever try to talk to you about it?”

“Yeah. I always ignored him, though. Well, until Oswald told me he thought I should try talking through it with a _good_ therapist,” Ed admitted with a mirthless chuckle.

“How did you two learn to coexist? How did you manage the system before Riddler vanished?”

“System?”

“Oh, like who controls stuff and when, how do you communicate with each other, and so on. A lot of people call their network of alters or parts their ‘system,’” Harley explained.

“Interesting. Anyways, how we worked together?” Harley nodded in confirmation. “We were...I think it’s called co-conscious?”

“Yep. Were you co-conscious most of the time? Occasionally? All of the time?”

“Almost always. Every now and then, one of us would check out for a little bit, but never for more than a few hours.”

“And who controlled the body? Was it an even split? Were you always in control? Was he in control?”

“I am almost always in control. Unless it’s during a crime, then he’s in charge.”

“Why is that?”

“His emotions about that stuff are different. He doesn’t _ever_ feel pity. I sometimes do—not always, just, sometimes someone will say something that makes me wonder if what we’re doing is a good idea. It’s easier to complete the...goal...if he’s controlling my body. I’m always right there with him, just in the passenger’s seat, so to speak. That way my emotions won’t spill into my— _our_ —actions.”

“And there’s no one else, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“No other alters that you’re aware of.”

“How could I not be awa—” Ed started, incredulous and thoroughly confused, before deciding that it was a question for another time, “No. It’s just us.”

“Okay,” Harley said slowly, writing something down on her notepad. She looked back up at Ed with a calm smile on her face, “I know you want to figure this out as soon as possible, so let’s move onto Riddler’s disappearance. When was the last time you saw him?”

“Two and a half weeks ago,” Ed replied instantaneously. Riddler’s absence was unusual, and, frankly, a bit unnerving to Ed, having grown so accustomed to having a headmate present at all times.

“What’s the last thing you remember doing together before Riddler went incommunicado?” Harley asked.

Ed paused. What were they going to do? And why couldn’t he remember? That wasn’t like him. “I think we were going to do a heist?...I...I’m not sure. I—”

“You don’t remember?” Ivy chirped in, clearly not believing Ed could _forget_ something. Well, Ed had forgotten she was still there, so obviously it _was_ possible.

“I remember,” Ed snapped defensively, “It’s just _taking a minute.”_


	10. Flipbook Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/3 for the day! Hope this helps to make up for that long break!

“Don’t rush him, Ivy,” Harley reprimanded.

“God, what were we _doing?”_ Ed groaned, absentmindedly hitting his thigh with his fist.

“Ed, why don’t we move on and come back to this, okay?” Harley suggested.

He froze and looked up at her, eyes narrowed. “Fine.”

“Why don’t you tell me about Riddler? What he’s like, the first time you remember meeting him, all that stuff.”

“He’s...strong. And smart. Creative. Powerful. He can be...mean, but...I don’t think he always understands when he’s hurting people. A lot of the time he does and just doesn’t care, but sometimes I think he genuinely doesn’t understand how people can get hurt by things that are motivated by logic. He thinks people are puzzles. He thinks everything is a puzzle...I don’t really know what else to say…”

“No, that’s-that’s good. It’s a good start,” Harley assured with a smile, “Do you remember meeting him? Or has he been there for as long as you can remember?”

“Um...yeah. Sort of. He...” Ed didn’t want to say anything, but honesty was going to be the most efficient way to get Riddler back. Or, at least, he hoped it would be the most efficient way to get Riddler back. Trying to trigger him out hadn’t worked. Ed refused to look either woman in the eyes as he admitted, “My dad used to hit me.”

“Oh, _Ed._ I’m so sorry. I never knew that,” Ivy said, her face dropping.

He looked up and, staring straight past the women in front of him, continued, “I don’t remember when it started. I know I was young enough to think it was normal for a lot of my life. I don’t think I understood it wasn’t...how everyone else’s life was until I was, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Sometimes—” Ed cut himself off as he forced back a sob threatening to crawl up his throat, “Sometimes Riddler would show up. He would offer to...um...He...I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay, Ed. Thank you for being so honest. I know this is not something that is easy to talk about,” Harley interjected, giving him a soft, almost pitying smile. _God._ Ed _hated_ that pity.

“He would offer to make it hurt less,” he spat out, then, looking sharply into Harley’s eyes added, “I don’t need your pity, you know.”

“I know, Ed. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be patronizing, I promise.”

“Fine," Ed replied, brushing off her apology, "Well, that’s what I remember Riddler doing when I was younger. Offering his assistance. As I got older he was a bit more aggressive and condescending in offering his assistance, but he was essentially trying to do the same thing. He wanted to help me. Sometimes we disagreed on what would and wouldn’t help me.”

◇

_“You aren’t_ thinking, _Ed!”_ Riddler was admonishing a seventeen-year-old Edward, who was soaked and halfway submerged under the ice-cold water of a Connecticut lake in late November, _“Wow. You need me even more desperately than I realized. Did your intelligence go out the window before or after the last of your self-respect?”_ Riddler continued to ridicule with a cruel laugh, _“There’s always a way out.”_

◇

“Ed?”

Ed shot forward, almost knocking the vial Ivy was holding under his nose onto the ground.

“Ed, are you alright?”

Ed looked up at Harley and Ivy, unsure of who had just spoken. “Um...yeah...I was just...I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Harley asked, eyebrow quirked in disbelief.

Ed nodded. He wasn’t fine. Why was _that_ memory bothering him? Why had he been transported back to that night so vividly? What was even _happening_? 

“Uh, what were we talking about again?”

“You were saying that you and Riddler sometimes disagreed on what would and wouldn’t help you,” Harley replied, scrutinizing his features for, Ed didn’t know what, but it was clearly _something._

“Right.” Ed nodded, “Right…”

◇

“I suppose I should thank you for leaving me alone for some of that trip,” Ed was begrudgingly admitting to Riddler, who towered over Ed’s cowering frame, “But it’d be a lot easier if you could have just left me alone for all of it. Or better yet, you could leave me alone for the rest of my life now that Dad is gone.”

Riddler just gave a sly grin as he stood up straighter. _“The less of me you have, the harder I am to hold. What am I?”_

“Your breath,” Ed answered without hesitation.

_“Correct!”_ his phantom foe replied with a delighted smile, _“Don’t hold your breath. If your lung capacity is anything like Harold’s you’ll be six feet under pretty quickly.”_

“...Did you... _kill_ Dad?” Ed asked in a shaky voice.

The spectre looked at him with a furrowed brow and penetrating, but frighteningly emotionless, gaze for several moments before responding with a laugh, _“No! What on earth would make you think that?”_

“You just said...about his lung capacity…”

_“God, Ed. It was a_ joke. _What? Just because the asshole died I can’t make a joke about him?”_

“I think it’s a little insensitive, considering he died _today_ and you’re making a joke about his _cause of death,”_ Ed spat. After a moment, however, Ed looked up at Riddler again with a softened gaze, practically begging, “You promise you didn’t kill him?”

_“Trust me, the last time I saw Harold, the only thing he was suffocating on was his own incompetence.”_

◇

What was wrong with him? Why was this happening to him?

“Ed? Are you okay? Do you need to take a break?” he heard Ivy ask. She seemed so far away and echoey. 

“No. No, I just—”

◇

It was odd. This wasn’t like the two flashbacks—if that’s even what they were—Ed had just experienced. He felt like he was floating, watching his body go through his day on fast forward. The only problem was, he didn’t remember the day he was watching.

His body walked to the museum. He had been planning a museum heist when Riddler vanished! That’s what he was forgetting! Ed could have sworn he knew that a few days ago, though. How had he forgotten so quickly?

He watched his body zip around the museum, then leaving and walking down several streets, many of which he didn’t remember ever going down before. Gotham was a large city, but Ed had still been in most areas. Where was he going?

He was breaking into an apartment building, old and dilapidated. He watched his body search one of the apartments. He was opening the door to the last unchecked room. Why didn’t he remember this?

So abruptly it was almost painful, Ed found himself forced down into his body. Time slowed down, and he was no longer a mere spectator of the scene but an active participant. 

Ed walked into the room and looked up to see—

◇

“A body! We saw a body!” Ed exclaimed aloud.

“...A body?” Ivy repeated, “...Was there something remarkable about it?”

◇

Rope. The gentle swinging of a body with blue-tinged skin.

◇

“He was hanging...from the rafters…” Ed said, almost entranced, as he stayed stuck in some strange in between world, with one foot planted firmly in the present and the other anchored in the past.

◇

The body started to flicker. Interspersed between pictures of the apartment, flickered pictures of something else. It was like watching a flipbook, with the lifeless body before him serving as the page turns.

That something else was Ed, but he was young...And not Ed. He tried to move closer for a better view, only for the image to stop flickering until Ed moved back once again.

He watched a younger, roughly seventeen or eighteen-year-old _“Ed”_ drag a limp body across the floor of his childhood home. A rope grabbed by gloved hands and wrapped tightly around the neck of the... _dead_ body. That must be wrong. Ed had never killed anyone before Officer Dougherty. His mind was playing tricks on him. That was all.

The flipbook kept flipping, and the page turns becoming faster and faster until it was an almost unbroken video of _“Ed”_ hoisting the body upwards as he tied the rope around the rafters.

Suddenly, Ed’s stomach felt uneasy—both hollow and churning at the same time. He walked closer to the scene unfolding in front of him, pulled against his will by some overwhelming magnetic force.

The flipbook pages shattered apart, leaving him wholly in the moment. In the room with this younger _“Ed”,_ who was not him, and the dead body. The familiar...familial...dead body.

Ed shook his head rapidly, trying to dispel whatever insanity was being projected in front of him. A nightmare, but _not_ a memory. It couldn’t be a memory. It just couldn’t.

And then _“Ed”_ spoke as he gave the rope a final tug, securing it in place with an eerily familiar smile, “Goodbye, Harold. See you in Hell.”

◇

The scene was gone. Ed was back with Harley and Ivy, who were staring at him with concerned expressions.

“Ed?” Harley asked gently.

“I have to go,” Ed replied, numbly standing—not bothering to take his bowler hat off the table—and walking towards the door. The world felt like it was spinning and far away, separated by a glass just thick enough to distort everything, but not thick enough to obscure it. Ed almost wished it would obscure it. He didn’t want to be here. He just wanted to disappear into nonexistence.

“Ed? Wait, Ed, don’t leave! Just sit back down and we’ll—” Ivy called after him, but she was too late. Ed was already out the door.

◈


	11. Playing God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ * ~ Denotes a change between Oswald's and Ivy's POV.

Ed was staring straight ahead, unblinking and eerily calm, his mind seemingly elsewhere. Oswald stood, staring at him in apprehensive stillness, much like the other two people in the room. They had been standing for a few moments in uneasy quiet after the Commissioner’s exit, when Ed finally broke the silence.

As he continued to stare, disquietingly focused on the wall in front of him, Ed slowly spoke, his flat, dispassionate tone only serving to heighten the tension in the room, “Oswald.”

“Y-yes?” he found himself trying to hide the all-too-obvious quiver in his voice the moment he opened his mouth—whether it came from anxiety or the strain of speaking so shortly after being strangled, Oswald wasn’t sure.

“I think you should go take care of your neck. It would be unfortunate for those bruises to last any significant length of time.”

No apology, no anger, no sadness, fear, or request for help...nothing. Just a steady, emotionless tone. And no eye contact. It made Oswald uneasy, but he decided to leave it be for now. Ed clearly wanted to be alone with Ivy and Harley—What on earth were they doing here, anyway?—and Oswald thought it unwise to challenge him on that; especially considering Ed had been an ounce of pressure away from choking him to death a few minutes prior. So, Oswald gave a wordless nod and turned to exit.

As he reached the doorway, he heard Ed call out, “Go to the kitchen, get eight to twelve ice cubes, and place them in a large hand towel. Wrap it twice, then hold or tie it, loosely, around your neck. Keep it there for at least fifteen minutes. Don't leave it on for more than twenty. That should help to minimize bruising.”

Oswald turned his head and met Ed’s impassive gaze, now focused directly on him. He gave a weak smile and forced out a trembling, “Thanks,” before hobbling off towards the kitchen to do as he was told.

~ * ~

“What are you doing here?” Ed asked the two women after the sound of Oswald’s footsteps faded into the distance.

“You wouldn’t pick up your phone,” Ivy explained, “We’ve been trying to get a hold of you for _days._ Are you doing okay?”

Harley remained silent, leaving Ivy to wonder what was wrong with her. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of Ed for a second since they entered the mansion. Though, to be fair, in the beginning it was a bit difficult not to have your focus drawn to Ed, considering he was in the middle of strangling one of Gotham’s most infamous ‘reformed’ criminals.

“Right as rain.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Ivy interrogated.

“I can be held, I can be broken, but never lost;  
Often made, rarely kept, shared for a cost.  
Empty or full, but never in between,  
When I am made, my consequences are often unforeseen.  
What am I?”

“...A promise, right?”

“Correct,” Ed replied, still lacking his usual glee.

Ivy looked over to Harley in the hopes of getting some kind of answer as to what a promise had to do with anything, but Harley’s focus remained intently fixed on Ed. She rolled her eyes before turning back to Ed, “Great. That was really fun,” she deadpanned, “Do you mind telling us how a _promise_ is related to with what’s wrong with you?”

“Why are you here?” he asked in lieu of an answer.

“We were worried about you, Ed,” Harley said, breaking her silence, “We just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“What, exactly, did you plan on doing while here? I’m sure you know I haven’t been home in days. I am also sure you were unaware I had returned before bursting in here uninvited.” Ed’s tone was accusatory, finally dropping his detached demeanor—if only partially. He still seemed fairly cold and distant, but any semblance of emotion seemed like progress in Ivy’s opinion. 

“Look, Ed—” Harley started, only to be interrupted by Ed.

“Were you here to talk to Oswald about me? Because, unless I’m mistaken—which I highly doubt—you two ladies promised not to tell Oswald I went to see you. How did you plan to explain your concern regarding, and knowledge of, my disappearance without letting Oswald know about our little meeting, _hmm?”_ his tone was condescending, but simultaneously and _irritatingly_ emotionless once again.

Ivy was sick of it, snapping, “Wow! It’s shocking that in a _group of criminals,_ someone decided to break their promise. I don’t think that’s _ever_ happened before!”

 _“Ivy,”_ Harley warned, eyeing Ed cautiously as Ivy continued to shout.

“No! At least we broke our promise because we were trying to _help_ him. Because we actually give a damn about the well-being of someone other than ourselves! And actually, screw that! We _didn’t_ even break our promise, because haven’t had the chance to say a word to Penguin!”

“But you would have if I didn’t send him out, right?” Ed growled, anger rising in his tone.

“So what if we did? You were trying to _kill_ him when we came in here! And, what's more, he didn’t try to kill _you_ the second you let him go. He’s obviously aware you’re losing your mind!”

“I am _not_ losing my mind!” he yelled back. _There_ ’s that fire.

“So why were you trying to kill Penguin?”

 _“I_ wasn’t trying to—” Ed cut himself off abruptly. Ivy was about to open her mouth, push him again in the hopes of keeping him from falling back to the unaffected air he’d held a few minutes before, when Harley cut in.

“Riddler?” Harley asked, softly.

Ed’s eyes hardened, his jaw clenching as he looked away from Harley’s prying eyes.

“Wait...it’s _you?”_ Ivy was surprised. She, unlike Harley, apparently, had been aware Riddler was another personality for years. She didn’t know what the disorder was called, and, honestly, it had only come up in conversation once; it was a conversation between her and Oswald years ago, at a more antagonistic period in the two men's relationship. She supposed she never _really_ knew whether Ed was Ed or Riddler, but she had always just thought Riddler was the flamboyant showman side of Ed and Ed was...everything else.

Ed remained stubbornly silent, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists tightly.

“Riddler,” Harley said again, almost coaxing in her tone, “How long have you been out?”

He gave a sharp exhale, turning to Harley with an irritated, mildly contemptuous smile plastered across his features, “In my defense, it’s been a while since I’ve had to ‘play Ed.’ You understand.”

“Of course,” Harley replied. Then, after a moment, continued, “Why did you feel the need to…’play Ed,’ as you put it.”

“Nice try, Harley,” Riddler replied with a sly smirk.

“What do you mean?”

“Wait, so, did _you_ try to kill Penguin?” Ivy interjected.

 _“No!”_ he snapped, clearly offended.

“So, Ed tried to kill Penguin?” It wasn’t like either of those things hadn’t happened before, but the two men seemed to be close now; it was hard to believe Ed would want to hurt Penguin.

“I...am not going to answer that,” Riddler retorted with a nonchalant shrug. His response gave Ivy an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, though she couldn’t quite figure out why.

“Do you not trust us?” Harley probed.

“Oh, come _on, Doctor Quinzel,”_ he taunted, a malicious smile spreading across his face, “Trying to psychoanalyze _me?_ You know I don’t trust you. Ed might have made that mistake, but, if I can help it, he won’t make it again. As much as I appreciate games, I’m not inclined to play yours. Sorry to disappoint, but it looks like you’ll have to play by yourself today.”

“I know you think you’re protecting Ed, but you’re not. If he can’t talk to _anyone_ about what’s bothering him, it will keep building up until it’s too much for him to handle. I don’t want that for him. I know you don’t want that for him, either.”

Riddler scoffed. “Because you know me so well. You didn’t even I was a _person_ until a few days ago!”

Harley paused, seemingly thinking something over. Ivy was tempted to break the silence but had no idea what to say. Fortunately, Harley answered Riddler before Ivy was forced to find a way to save this sinking ship of a conversation. 

“You’re right. I don’t know you very well at all, but I believe I understand you all the same. Not all of you; you are a complex person, and I’ll have to get to know you better before I can truly understand you. _But._ I understand that you protect Ed from the things you think he can’t handle. And I believe that is what he needed at certain times in his life, but are you sure that’s what he needs now? He wants to know and understand and work together, but you can’t do that—not fully, anyway—if you’re keeping things from him.”

“Right,” Riddler’s tone turned dangerously cold, a deep, menacing growl emanating from the back of his throat as his calculating eyes, burning with a terrifying fury, studied Harley’s face. “Like the things _you_ reminded him of.”

“What?” Ivy interjected, confused.

“Do you think this is a joke?” Riddler shouted, not taking his attention off Harley “Is this a game to you? Playing God with his mind and reminding him of things he has _no_ business knowing!”

“What are you talking about?” Harley asked, slowly backing away as Riddler advanced towards her with long, sure steps. His daunting frame loomed above her, forcing the blonde into a corner.

Ivy did not like this. She reached into her purse, pulling out a small vial, filled with cloudy, gray liquid, and tiptoed towards the two. Just as Riddler was about to speak, and Ivy was about to shove the concoction beneath his nose, Penguin’s voice rang through the room.

“Ed?”

~ * ~ 

Oswald had been in the kitchen, holding the ice on his neck as instructed, when he heard yelling. He’d heard yelling earlier, but, as he was debating whether or not to go check on Ed and the girls, the shouting had stopped. This time it was just Ed’s voice he heard, and he recognized that tone. It was _not_ good to be on the receiving end of it. He tore the ice from his neck, carelessly flinging the rag onto the counter as he rushed from the room. His leg protested furiously, but he ignored it, continuing to march determinedly towards the living room. As he reached the door, he saw Ivy with a vial of God-knows-what in her hand, Ed looming over Harley, trapping her in a corner, and Harley’s trembling hand, as the rest of her body was obscured by Ed’s tall frame.

“Ed?” he called loudly.

Everyone froze. Ivy shoved the cork lid on the vial, quickly hiding it behind her back as she noticed Ed start to turn. Ed spun around rapidly, a knife falling from his grasp in his surprise as he breathed out, _“Oswald?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a riddle! I've actually made a few for this fic. There's one in an upcoming chapter I'm really proud of, so y'all can look forward to that!


	12. Altschmerz

Oswald looked from Ed, to the knife on the ground, back to Ed. 

“Were you going to _stab_ Harley?” he asked, baffled and mildly mortified.

“You were going to _what?!”_ Ivy shrieked, looking for all the world like she might gut the man in front of her. The redhead lunged towards Ed, only to be stopped by Harley grabbing her waist and pulling her back harshly.

“Ivy, _no.”_ he heard her whisper sharply.

Turning back to Ed, he noticed the man was just staring at him blankly. He looked almost catatonic. Scratch that. He looked completely catatonic.

“Ed?” Oswald said, carefully approaching him. Ed continued to stare blankly at the spot Oswald had just vacated, seemingly unaware he had moved. He tried again as he got close, reaching out and nervously stroking Ed’s arm as he spoke, afraid of provoking the same reaction as earlier, “Ed? Can you hear me?”

It took a minute, maybe two, but Ed seemed to blink back to reality, eyes shifting about wildly as he looked around. His gaze finally settled on Oswald. Ed gave a surprisingly normal smile, the kind he gave when nothing was wrong and everything about their life was normal. It was wonderful, if a bit confusing, to see. He looked at Oswald for a moment before responding with a slight chuckle, “I’m sorry, Oswald. I just zoned out.”

“...It’s...fine,” Oswald replied slowly, glancing over at Harley, who was still soothing Ivy’s anger, and Ivy, who was reluctantly calming down. He shifted his focus back to Ed. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve got a little bit of a headache.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I think I need some rest. It’s been a long...day,” Ed answered with a weak laugh.

“I understand,” Oswald said with a sympathetic nod. He glanced at the two women again, wondering what to do about them, considering Ed seemed to suddenly be unaware or uncaring that they existed, and both of them were ignoring the existence of himself and Ed. “Why don’t you head to your room? I’ll see Ivy and Harley out and then I’ll come check on you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Ed replied with a genuine smile, adoration shining through his eyes as he looked at Oswald; it made Oswald’s heart flutter. As Ed left the room and walked up the stairs, Oswald turned to Ivy and Harley. 

“Hello, ladies,” he said awkwardly, causing the women to stop their hushed conversation and turn to him abruptly. “I’m not sure which question I should ask first...Let’s start with...What just happened? What did I walk in on?”

“Riddler was here,” Ivy responded.

 _“What?!”_ Oswald felt like he’d been punched. His chest felt tight, his breath was sucked straight from his lungs, and the room felt like it was spinning. “Was I just talking to _Riddler?”_

That couldn’t be right. He didn’t seem like Riddler. He seemed like...Ed? Well, more like Ed than like Riddler...but more like Ed when he was calm and carefree, which hadn’t been a frequent occurrence as of late...or ever.

“I’m not sure you were,” Harley admitted.

 _“What?”_ Ivy half-shrieked, “We were _just_ talking to him!”

“Yeah, but I think Oswald coming in surprised him. It sort of...shocked him back into being Ed...Unless he was just pretending to be Ed, but I don’t think he was.”

“And how would you know who he is? You said it yourself, you barely know Riddler.”

“That’s true...I just...I have a feeling.”

“A _feeling?_ Well, call the judge. If that isn’t a case-winning argument, I don’t know what is,” Ivy snapped.

“What did Riddler say?” Oswald interjected impatiently, unwilling to let the two women spiral into their bickering once again. He never understood those two. They were always either about to bite each other’s heads off, or they were so overwhelmingly affectionate it made everyone around them nauseous. There was never any in between with them. He supposed the same could be said of himself and Ed, though he’d never admit as much aloud...Well, not _again._ Besides, they were only so affectionate in private. They didn’t flaunt their relationship. It was quite the opposite; in fact, Oswald and Ed hid their relationship from most everyone around them. 

Both Ivy and Harley got oddly quiet at his question, obviously hiding _something_ —but what, he had no idea.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” he snapped.

“No. There was nothing important,” Harley replied breezily.

“Are you _serious?”_

“Quite,” she challenged with a glint in her eye.

Oswald turned his attention to Ivy, who looked as though she could _burst_ with the desire to say something. Clearly she was the weaker link.

“Ivy, what was Riddler talking about?” he asked with a supercilious smile.

“He sai—” Ivy started, only to be cut off by a brutal glare from Harley.

“That’s not your place, Ives,” she warned.

“Well, if you two are going to be _completely_ useless, I suggest you leave. I also highly recommend making yourselves easy to contact and easily available until whatever the Hell is going on is resolved. Goodbye. I’ll call you if I need to speak with you regarding this again,” Oswald said, pseudo-cordial tone barely concealing the razor sharp points of his thinly veiled threat. He spun on his heel and hobbled up the stairs as quickly as he could, not bothering to make sure the two women actually left. He knew that, contrary to popular belief, both women actually possessed brains, and would, therefore, understand his suggestion was more of a command than a recommendation.

As he reached the door to his room, he could hear Ed’s muttering. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, it was impossible to discern, so Oswald steeled himself before opening the door.

Ed was sitting on Oswald’s bed, knees pulled up to his chest, head drooped down, and fingers pressing insistently on his closed eyes beneath his glasses. Oswald attempted to close the door quietly, however, a brief gust of wind from the open window—Did Ed _open_ a window? He never opened windows—slammed the door behind him shut with a loud _thump._ Ed’s head shot up, his red-rimmed eyes wide and the slightest bit fearful, before flooding with relief.

“Oswald,” he breathed, his relief audible in just that one word. He motioned to Oswald to sit beside him, and Oswald obliged.

Oswald looked at him, eyes calculating as he searched Ed’s face for the slightest hint that Riddler was in charge. He seemed more like Ed right now, but Oswald couldn’t be sure. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked carefully.

“I—Did we...Did we talk to Jim already?” Ed asked.

Oswald tried to hide his shock, forcing his face to show nothing more than mild concern. “...Yes. We did.”

“So, that was real?”

“I believe so?”

“He said I told him I—I... _killed,”_ Ed’s voice broke on the last word, cutting him off from finishing his sentence as he fought back tears.

“Yes,” Oswald confirmed, softly rubbing Ed’s back.  
“...Ed?” he said after a moment.

Ed looked at him, eyes wide and sad and almost innocent in their undisguised distress.

“Are you...missing time? From today?” he rushed to clarify, “In the past hour or so?”

Ed nodded slowly.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was downstairs with you and...James Gordon...and Jim said...he told me—” Ed was unable to finish his thought, as the dam holding back his tears finally gave way and released a _flood._ After he calmed down, he continued, “And then it felt like the whole world was crashing in around me and everything went black. The next thing I knew, I was in here. Alone.”

“Oh, _Eddie,”_ Oswald sympathized, drawing Ed into a tight hug, pouring all his love and worry into it, enveloping Ed in a cocoon of the type of comfort and safety only achieved in the arms of someone who loves you— _values_ you—unconditionally. “I hate that this is happening to you,” he whispered, barely suppressing a sob, and failing to suppress a quiver, in his voice, “You know that I love you no matter what, Ed. I do. And I’m going to help you. Tell me what you need, and I _swear_ I will do it. I will do anything for you.”

Ed’s hugged him so tightly in response to his words that Oswald couldn’t breathe for a moment. “I just—” Ed started, “I’m so tired.”

“Do you want to lie down?”

“No.” Oswald felt Ed shake his head where it was nestled between his neck and shoulder. “That’s not what I mean. Well, it’s not _wrong_ , per se, but it’s not what I was talking about.”

“What were you talking about?”

“I’m tired of _this._ Of forgetting. Of learning about terrible things I did. Of learning about all the times I _hurt_ people that I didn't even _know_ I hurt! It’s a different circumstance, but...It’s the same. It’s the same miserable story over and over again, doomed to repeat itself until I’m six feet underground, my body rotting in the same way my soul has been for years.”

“Please don’t say that, Ed,” Oswald whispered, tears flowing freely, “You have such a beautiful soul. You are not rotten or bad or—or...You have been through things. Things that no one— _no one_ —should _ever_ go through. And...Yes. You have hurt people. And...it seems that you _may_ have killed your father, but don’t think for a moment that makes you a bad person, Ed. Before today, you’ve only spoken about him once in the entire time I’ve known you. In that five minute conversation, I learned that there was never a man more deserving of death. You were protecting yourself, Ed. Whether you realize it or not, whether you knew it at the time or not, you were. That was an act of self-preservation. Do you remember what you told me about high school?”

“No,” Ed replied quietly as he pulled himself away from Oswald slightly, escaping the embrace but remaining close and refusing to meet his eyes.

“You told me that every time you opened the door to your house, you were scared to go inside. You told me that every time he hit you, you wondered if this would be the time he would finally go too far and kill you. You said you didn’t believe that was an _if._ It was a _when._ You knew he was going to kill you, Ed. I have no doubt Riddler knew it too. So, whether it was _you_ Ed or Riddler Ed who killed him, it’s...understandable. And, given the circumstances, it was the right thing to do.”

"I...I was exaggerating about thinking he would kill me," Ed protested weakly, "I was just angry—"

"No! You were _not_ exaggerating, Ed!" Oswald shouted, cutting him off, "Don't you _dare_ lie to yourself and make yourself feel even more guilty, just to protect someone who abused you. Because that is what you're doing right now. Don't pretend it's not."

Ed stared at him in wide-eyed silence for several minutes before asking quietly, “How did you know it was Riddler?”

“I didn’t know for sure, but...I think, just based on conversations I’ve had with him before, that he does things you might not agree with because he thinks they will protect you...um...and...it doesn’t seem like it is out of the realm of possibility for him to believe that killing your father would protect you,” Oswald stuttered. He knew Ed would likely disagree with the idea that Riddler _protected_ him. To his surprise, Ed merely clenched his jaw and nodded stiffly.

“Can we...go to the GCPD?”

Oswald’s jaw dropped open and his eyes bulged at that. He must be mistaken. He could _not_ have heard that correctly. “I _beg_ your pardon?”


	13. Pseudonym

“Ed, _Ed,”_ Oswald implored, “I understand that you’re upset and you feel guilty, but you _cannot_ turn yourself in! An—a-and,” Oswald stuttered, “H-how do even know it really happened?!”

“Excuse me?” Ed asked, tone low and bordering on dangerous.

Oswald’s eyes grew wide as he realized his mistake, “Ed,” he amended gently, “Not to be _indelicate,_ but...we both know you have a history of seeing things that aren’t...there.”

“Yes,” Ed conceded, “But I’ve never _remembered_ things that haven’t happened.”

Oswald couldn’t argue with that.  
“You still can’t turn yourself in. Please, _please_ promise me you won’t turn yourself in!” he begged, tears brimming in his glassy green eyes.

“Relax, Oswald. I don’t want to turn myself in.”

Oswald breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then, realizing he had no clue why Ed wanted to go to the GCPD if not to turn himself in, he asked, “Then why are we going?”

~ * ~ 

Jim had been in the middle of filling out a report from his most recent case and generally trying to go through his day like he hadn’t been awoken by a wanted criminal in the midst of a mental breakdown at three o’clock that morning, and, against all better judgement, decided _not_ to turn him in, when he noticed something rather...odd.

He had been looking up from the papers to ask Harvey a question when he noticed the Penguin standing in front of the door to the GCPD records room. Not only that, but he was facing out and making no effort to enter...almost like he was standing guard. And Jim knew right away what that meant.

“Jim?” Harvey’s voice cut through his thoughts, “You good?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Fine,” Jim grunted with a smile he realized was not at all convincing, considering he had yet to draw his eyes away from the spot behind Harvey.

“Uh-huh,” Bullock said flatly, turning to look behind him.

“You know—” Jim half-shouted, succeeding drawing Harvey’s—and Oswald’s—attention before Harvey spotted their unexpected guest, but failing to decrease Harvey’s rising suspicion, “I have such a headache,” he fumbled out.

“What?”

“Yeah. Um, it’s making it really...hard to...focus on the report,” Jim knew he was a terrible actor, but at least he was trying, “Uh, and I want to make sure I got everything right. You were there! Would you mind looking it over for me and making sure I didn’t screw it up while I go see if I have some Tylenol or something in my bag?”

Bullock clearly knew Jim was hiding something. Both men simultaneously looked back towards the records room door, where Jim had been staring earlier. To Jim’s relief, Penguin seemed to have realized that Jim was trying to cover him and had disappeared, though Jim doubted he was lucky enough for the man to have left the GCPD. 

“...Alright,” Harvey said skeptically, turning back to Jim.

“Thanks, Harv,” he replied with a forced smile as he rushed towards the locker rooms—the same direction as the records room. When he was sure Harvey wasn’t looking, he darted into the records room, closing the door behind him.

He was greeted with the cold barrel of a gun pressing into the side of his head. He didn’t have to look over to know who it was...especially when he could see a clearly frustrated Edward Nygma rooting through the records, various files strewn carelessly across the floor around him.

“Penguin.”

“Jim,” he replied, removing the gun from Jim’s temple. “Precaution. You understand,” he said with a smirk and a slight tilt of his head when Jim turned to look at him.

Jim nodded slowly, “Why are you here?”

He was somewhat surprised to see the two men together so peacefully after the situation he had walked away from earlier that morning, but Jim didn’t think it was the best time to ask them about what happened.

“We—”

“Why did you change the organization system?!” Ed nearly shouted, whirling to face Jim. His eyes were crazed and his chest was heaving with uneven breaths.

 _“Ed,”_ Oswald warned.

“Calm down, Ed. Do you want people to hear you?” Jim growled, before deflating, “Why did you come here? I was trying to keep you out of jail. Coming to the GCPD while you are a _wanted_ man makes that hard for me to do.”

“Well, I just need to find it, and then I’ll leave,” Ed snapped.

“What do you need to find?”

“He wants to find his criminal file and his employment file,” Oswald explained.

“Which would be _far_ easier if you _imbeciles_ had kept my lateral system in place. How did anyone think it was a good idea to change it to...to _this?”_

“Look, Ed, I’m not in here very much, and a lot of the records aren't here anymore. We're in the process of digitizing our records with the new Wayne Enterprises tech...but I’ll help you look,” Jim replied, biting his tongue to keep from saying something he’d later regret. Why was he even helping, Ed at this point? He was a wanted criminal at the GCPD; Jim could easily turn him in.

However, once again against his better judgement, Jim made his way to help Ed search.

“So, why do you want your records?”

“You do background checks.”

“...Yes...We do…” When he didn’t receive any explanation, Jim asked, “Why?”

“Why don’t you take a wild guess, Jim? Why, after what you said I told you, would I want to get access to the information you have on me?”

“You never confessed that to anyone else that we know of, Ed. We don’t have any proof that you’ve done anything.”

“I understand that,” Ed said, turning to Jim abruptly, “That’s not why I...Well, it doesn’t really matter, now, does it?” he trailed off, going back to his search.

Jim took this as a cue to resume his as well. “Any plans on helping us, Penguin?”

“Someone needs to stand guard,” Oswald replied, his voice lacked none of his typical bite, but his eyes trailed after Ed with a solemn sheen. 

As Jim continued to rummage through the drawers of employee records, he spotted a file labeled **E. Nygma.**

“Ed, I—”

And at that exact moment, the door swung open, revealing Harvey Bullock.

Penguin’s gun was immediately pressed into the side of the man’s head, a quiet snarl coming from his lips as he commanded, “Close the door and don’t make a sound.”

Harvey stared at the scene in front of him, but silently complied.

“What the Hell are you two doing here?” he asked once the door was shut.

“None of your business, Detective,” Ed said quickly, voice emotionless and expression blank.

“Maybe you should leave, Harv,” Jim supplied, awkwardly.

“No,” Penguin answered, “Not happening. We just need...what we came for, and we’ll be out of your hair. Why don’t you take a seat, Bullock?”

“Where?” Harvey huffed.

“On the invisible throne in the corner," Penguin deadpanned, "Where do think? On the ground.” 

As Harvey slowly complied, mumbling complaints about a bad back, Jim walked over to Ed with the file, “I believe this is what you need, Nygma.”

Ed’s eyes lit up for a moment as he grabbed the file and flipped through it, only to fall abruptly.

“No,” he muttered, “No! This can’t be it, Jim. There has to be something else!”

“Ed, this is your employee file, we can find your criminal one—”

“If it’s not in here, it won’t be in there. They wouldn’t know. I would never tell them. I never _told_ them!”

“Told them what, Ed?”

“About... _Gah!”_ he shouted, clearly upset. He hurled the file across the room, slamming his fist into one of the filing cabinets. “How did no one see it? How did every single person miss it? Was I _that_ invisible? I couldn't have fooled everyone.”

“Ed,” Penguin said gently, moving closer to Ed, who seemed to be unraveling by the second, “I know you’re upset, but I need you to lower your voice, just a little bit. Let’s go outside with the file, take a breath, and—”

It was then that Jim noticed Harvey pulling out his gun from beneath his coat and pointing it towards the two criminals. 

“Harvey, no!” he nearly shouted, dashing towards him. But Ed moved with startling speed, leaping past Oswald and snatching the gun from Harvey’s hands before anything could happen. He stepped back, pointing the gun at Bullock with lightly trembling hands and a burning glare that spoke of imminent danger. Jim really wished he hadn’t left his gun at his desk.

“Edward,” Oswald said, soft but stern, as he placed a hand on Ed’s wavering arm while Harvey and Jim stood stock still, staring at Ed anxiously, “Let’s go outside. Let’s leave them be, and we can continue to...work this out.”

Ed stared at Harvey in silence, his eyes not straying in the slightest.  
“They’re coming with us,” he declared with finality.

“Ed, you can’t be serious,” Penguin scoffed.

Ed’s attention turned dangerously on the shorter man, “I am quite serious, Oswald. Bullock will turn us over the second we leave, and Jim won’t be so cooperative if we leave him behind while holding his friend hostage.”

“Woah, woah, _woah,”_ Harvey started.

“Nygma, that’s not a good idea.”

“Ed, we are _not_ taking anyone hostage!” Oswald's voice was shaking, likely with the effort of suppressing a shout.

“Yes, Oswald, we are.” His tone left no room for argument, “Tell me, when you were in my situation, what did you do? Oh right, you’ve never been in this situation,” Ed grabbed the lapels of the Penguin’s coat with his free hand, pulling him up roughly to meet his height, “This is not up for negotiation. We are going to do this my way, because I need to make peace with...everything, and I can’t do that if people try to interfere with my process.” He released Penguin from his grasp, “I didn’t stop you from going after Galavan when your mother died.”

“That’s a bit different, Ed,” Penguin amended, oddly restrained compared to his normal ire when his mother was mentioned, even considering Ed’s revelation.

“I still need to deal with my grief.”

“I hope you plan to deal with the killer a different way,” Oswald said, voice shaking behind a forced pleasantness.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Ed declared, spinning fully towards Jim and Bullock and fully ignoring Oswald’s veiled plea, as Jim knew that was what it was, “Let’s go to the car. We’ll figure out our next destination from there. Road trip!”

His faux glee was frightening and saddening, and Jim went far more willingly than he wanted to admit. He really needed to get his pity in check.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not, the wait for the next chapter will be a way shorter than the wait for this one (sorry about that, I was in and out of hospital this past week and a half).


	14. T is for Trauma

As the four men sat in the armored car, Oswald did his best to maintain some sense of privacy for himself and Ed, sitting in the back while seating Gordon and Bullock three rows of seats in front of them, near the front of the passenger section of the van. The car wasn’t quite to Oswald’s taste in terms of exterior fashion, but it was unassuming with heavily tinted windows to obscure any...unsavory ongoings within, and the interior was fully furnished with all of his usual comforts, including comfy, leather seats and a mini-bar. How could he be expected to get through days like this without one?

He sipped on a small flask to ease his tension as he sat beside Ed, hand soothing gentle caresses along his thigh—thankfully blocked from view of the other passengers by the tall backs of the seats in front of them. He wasn’t fond of the idea of anyone knowing the true nature of their relationship—at least, not with any certainty; rumors were bound to spread, after all—but he particularly didn’t want any _cops_ knowing about their relationship. That could make Ed’s schemes a tad more complex, and, though he was certain Ed would claim to welcome the challenge, he knew it was best to avoid that type of complexity.

Ed’s earlier frustration had worn off, but now Ed seemed out of it, like his mind had disappeared to some far off place. He stared straight ahead, expression blank, only occasionally marred by a flash of pain. Oswald wanted to ask him about it, but he couldn’t do that when Harvey Bullock was sitting only a few feet away. He had ordered the driver to take them all back to the manor, where he would hopefully talk Ed into releasing Bullock and, perhaps Gordon, though Jim did seem a far more willing participant than his gruff counterpart. Fortunately, the two cops seemed to be having a fairly calm, polite conversation up front. If they weren’t plotting their escape. Oswald knew they most likely were.

“Is there anything I can do to help you, Eddie,” he whispered into the taller man’s ear after making sure neither Jim nor Harvey were paying them any attention.

Ed just shook his head.

“Do you think you can tell me why you wanted your file now? I might be more effective at helping you than you think.”

“I want to go home,” Ed said quietly as he stared out the car window.

“I know, Ed,” Oswald consoled, patting his knee in what he hoped was a comforting manner, “We’re going to the manor right now.”

“No!” Ed snapped, causing everyone to stare at him as his head whirled towards Oswald with a frustration no one else in the car understood, “I want to go _home!”_ he repeated.

Oswald wasn’t sure how to respond; they were heading back to the manor. Perhaps Ed meant his old apartment on Grundy? Or the library he stayed in during Gotham’s split from the mainland? Or maybe even the dingy little apartment from the narrows after his time on ice?

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Oswald said carefully.

“Home, Oswald. I want to go home.”

“Which home?” he tried.

“Waterbury.”

“Waterbury?” Oswald echoed. He had no clue what Ed was talking about. “Okay. What’s the address? I’ll take you there.” Oswald ignored Jim’s grumble of protest from up near the driver’s seat.

Ed got quiet and stared at the floor. When he spoke again, it was almost inaudible, “I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Oswald responded, trying to sound reassuring, though his mind was racing, trying to remember the last time Edward had _forgotten_ something like that.

“No it’s not,” Ed mumbled towards the ground, before looking up to Oswald with a sharpened gaze and shouting, “No it’s NOT!”

His face looked so pained. All Oswald wanted to do was capture the taller man in his arms and hold him and kiss him until all the pain was gone. That was a difficult feat to accomplish while in a car with several other people, all of whom he wished to hide the nature of their relationship from. Oswald was looking at Ed’s exhausted eyes, bloodshot and underlined by deep purple bags, when the idea came to him. He pulled out his phone and sighed as he typed in a number. “Lucius?”

“Penguin?” came Lucius’ shocked voice through the phone’s speaker.

“I _did_ say I’d contact you if I needed your assistance. I need you to use the Wayne Enterprise records database to look up some information for me. I need help finding an address.”

“Alright, go ahead,” Lucius confirmed after a few minutes of nothing but the sounds of clicking keys and rhythmic breathing.

“Edward Nygma and the street name Waterbury.”

“On it.”

“No. That’s wrong,” Ed protested meekly beside him.

“What?” Oswald asked.

“That’s wrong.”

“Hold on, Lucius. Ed says that’s wrong.”

“Yeah, I’m not getting anything under that search,” Lucius affirmed.

Oswald pulled the phone away from his ear, covering the speaker with his hand and turning to face Ed fully, “What do you mean it’s wrong?”

“Nashton,” Ed whispered.

“What?”

“Tell him to look up the surname Nashton. Given names Harold, Lore—spelled L-O-R-E, not L-A-U-R-A—and Edward. City of Waterbury, state of Connecticut,” Ed rattled off without a hint of emotion in his tone, his body closed off from Oswald and his eyes staring dutifully out the window behind Oswald.

Oswald noticed that Jim and Harvey had gone silent up front. He slowly removed his hand from the phone’s speaker and held it to his ear again, speaking in a hushed tone, “Lucius, try the names Harold Nashton, Edward Nashton, and Lore—L-O-R-E—Nashton under Waterbury, Connecticut...Do you have access to Connecticut records?”

“We actually do. It was one of the first states to adopt the Wayne Enterprise tech to digitize its records. Running it through now,” Lucius replied, drawing out the last word as he waited for the information to load, “Got it!” he announced, a calm but cheerful edge to his tone before it suddenly dropped to one of frightening solemnity, “Oh God.”

The sudden seriousness in his tone made Oswald’s heart sink to his stomach, apprehensive to hear the cause of Lucius’ shift in demeanor.

“...What is it?” he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral, so as not to alert anyone else in the car to the potentially alarming nature of whatever he was about to hear. He could tell Ed knew, though, from the way his eyes narrowed and his gaze shifted to focus intently on Oswald’s face—studying him.

“I just never…” Lucius started, “I never knew—” he tried again, “Penguin, it’s not good.”

“Well, what is it?” Oswald pressed, forcing a light and breezy air he most certainly did not feel into his tone.

“Hospital records. Court records. Police reports. Lots of them. _Too_ many of them,” Lucius’ voice was choked, as though he was fighting back tears. “It’s really bad, Oswald.”

~ * ~

As Lucius looked at the screen in front of him, he felt bile rise in his throat. _Seven years_ worth of police reports and hospital records, sporadic at first, then a steadily increasing volume as the years went on...and then nothing. It all vanished, aside from a death certificate from a little under three years after the end of the police reports and hospital records, and another death certificate from another five years after that.

Document after document appeared on his screen: domestic disturbance, domestic disturbance, broken leg, broken ribs, domestic disturbance, alcohol poisoning, on and on the records went in much a similar pattern. The primary subjects of the hospital records were Lore Nashton and Edward Nashton. 

Lucius wasn’t oblivious; he knew what this meant. He also knew that the sudden end to the repeated calls of ‘domestic disturbances’ and hospital visits didn’t mean things got better...in fact, it was more likely than not that it meant things only got worse; especially when he included the death certificate of Lore Nashton listing suicide as the cause of death three years _after_ the problems seemed, at least from the outside, to have stopped. He knew there were other potential reasons, but with everything together...there was a sinking feeling in the pit of Lucius' stomach that was rapidly growing larger.

He’d never considered what Ed’s life may have been like before the GCPD. Horror flooded Lucius’ body as little ‘eccentricities’ of Ed’s suddenly rushed to the forefront of his mind, eccentricities that now made terrible, heartbreaking sense. The jumpiness at any unexpected touch, and touch in general, the obsessive desire for recognition and praise, the immediate distrust of a certain _type_ of man, and the constant insecurity and need for validation in one-on-one conversations.

“Lucius?” Oswald’s voice crackled through the phone.

“Sorry, sorry,” he shook his head.

“What are—” Penguin’s voice cracked a bit, causing him to fall silent, likely to compose himself, “What do you see?”

“I...I don’t think this is something that should be shared over the phone. I can come by and drop it off after work. You can take a look then,” he offered, trying to suppress the emotion in his voice.

“I’m not waiting that long. I want an address in the next hour,” Penguin commanded, before dropping his voice substantially, whispering, “And anything else you deem...necessary for me to know.”

“Penguin, I want to help, but I don’t know if I can—”

“That wasn’t a _question_ , Lucius. I’ll see you soon.” The line went dead.

Lucius looked back to the screen in front of him, printing out the address, death certificates, and a few hospital records. As he was sifting through the documents, he noticed the topic of the court documents.

“Oh my God.”


	15. Trust

When they arrived at the manor, Penguin quickly ushered everyone out of the car, hand gripping Ed’s arm tightly—probably to guide him; the poor man seemed totally unaware of his surroundings by the time they got there—and gun pointing at Jim and Harvey.

As everyone was herded into the house, Jim shot Harvey a look, hoping his eyes communicated well enough that Harvey had better not try his hair-brained escape plan now. On the ride over, Harvey had been spouting bad plan after bad plan—most of which, any logical person could see, would naturally result in at least one of the two getting severely injured, maybe killed. While Jim hoped that Oswald and Ed appreciated him and all the help he had provided in the past eight hours enough not to kill him, he couldn’t be completely sure they wouldn’t if he tried to pull one of the moronic stunts Bullock suggested. Harvey seemed to understand. Well, that, or he just didn’t see an ‘opportunity’ with Penguin’s gun trained on them as they walked into the foyer.

Jim wanted to say something as the four of them stood in awkward silence, but he wasn’t sure what he could say that wouldn’t risk either setting off Ed or Oswald or letting Harvey know more about what was happening than Jim wanted him to—for his own sake more than Ed’s, he reluctantly admitted to himself. Hey, no one can be a hero _all_ the time, though Jim sure as Hell tried. Thankfully, Oswald finally spoke after what felt like hours of silence.

“Ed?”

Almost in slow motion, Ed turned his head to look at Oswald. It was so strange to see the Riddler, the man who was always ten steps ahead of everyone else, so... _impaired._

“Ed, you seem tired. Why don’t you go to your room and unwind?”

Ed’s eyes widened and he shook his head, still moving with eerie slowness. “No,” he argued, glancing towards Jim and Harvey, “I need to—”

 _“Ed,”_ Oswald interjected sharply, “I’ll take care of them for now. Just go to your room, lie down, and relax. I’ll come get you if anything happens.”

Ed agreed, though it was obvious he was reluctant, and made his way up the stairs. After his figure had disappeared around the corner at the top of the stairwell, Oswald turned back to face them.

“Gentlemen, let’s make ourselves a bit more comfortable,” he said, gesturing towards the living room Jim had been sitting in not more than a few hours ago in a clear command.

They all sat down, Penguin taking the seat closest to the exit, gun still ready and in hand. 

“Do you want to share what two were talking about on the ride over?” Penguin asked, deceptively bright in a way that suggested an unspoken threat.

“The weather,” Harvey deadpanned.

“The weather?”

“It’s really a nice day out. Fall is my favorite time of year.”

“Fantastic. Jim?”

“What?”

“Do you want to tell me what you were actually talking about?”

“Weather,” Jim replied with an apologetic shrug, knowing there was no winning in this situation.

“Fine,” Penguin snapped, setting his jaw. After a moment, he sighed, his whole body deflating, “Look, I don’t want to keep you here—”

“Then let us go,” Harvey interrupted.

“Then let me _finish,”_ Oswald countered, staring down the Detective. Harvey met his gaze, defiant.

Jim’s eyes flickered between the two, waiting for one to break, before cutting in, “Harv, just let him finish.”

Harvey’s broke his staring contest with Penguin to look at Jim, expression unreadable, which was _not_ something often seen on Harvey Bullock. The man’s emotions usually showed on his face with all the subtlety of a sign for a Las Vegas casino.

“Thank you, Jim,” Oswald said, his tone somehow managing to properly chide Bullock and thank Jim simultaneously, “Detective Bullock, you have to understand that Ed is not...in his right mind at the moment—”

“Wow. How on earth did you figure _that_ one out?” Bullock mocked, “Was it the hobby of murdering civilians? Or was it the bank robbery? Oh! Or was it the riddles? For me, it was the riddles.”

Jim shifted uneasily as he saw Penguin’s eyes narrow. He began looking around for anything that could serve as a makeshift weapon should the need arise.

“Detective,” Penguin spat, an odd mix of a snarl and an artificial politeness ingrained in his voice as he spoke, “Your odds of surviving this little trip are decreasing every time you open your mouth, so, _friend,_ I would suggest you shut it.”

“Friend?” Harvey scoffed, “There are a lot of words for what I think you are. _Friend_ is not one of them.”

Harvey wasn’t stupid, Jim knew that. But, God. What was he _thinking?_

“Do you have a death wish?!” Penguin shouted, clearly at the end of his already short rope.

“Penguin,” Jim said, voice calm and a bit more pleading than his ego would typically allow, “We don’t want to cause trouble. I understand you want to help Ed with...this stuff,” he supplied, hoping his wording was vague enough to keep Harvey from finding him out, “Hell, I’ll help you with it if you want. But you should let Harvey go.” Then, lowering his voice and leaning towards Oswald so Harvey couldn’t hear him, “He’s not going to be able to help with this.”

“You don’t think I’m aware of that?” Oswald derided, “I had planned to let him go until the moment he opened his mouth. I planned to let both of you go. Now I’m reconsidering.”

Harvey blanched when he heard that. Yeah, it was about time he realized how stupid he was being.

“Uh,” Harvey stuttered, “You know I was just joking around, right?” he laughed awkwardly, unconvincingly, “I didn’t mean any of that. So...you can let us go. I won’t say a word. I’m sure Jim won’t either. Right, Jim?” When he didn’t receive an immediate response, he blabbered on, “I mean, you didn’t even steal anything, really. The file never left the premises, so...no harm, no foul.”

Jim grimaced but nodded curtly in the hopes that Harvey wouldn’t just make things worse with his strained explanation. Or apology. Or whatever it was supposed to be. He was sure the bird pun, intentional or not, was not helping. He looked over to see Penguin huff and pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“You are a terrible liar, Bullock...But look,” he said, sea-green eyes raising to meet the two detectives’, sharp and piercing, “I have...a lot to deal with right now. Jim, if you are amenable to assisting me in taking care of Ed’s situation, I see no reason why Detective Bullock can’t leave—So long as he doesn’t say _anything._ We didn’t steal anything, as you pointed out. And, in Gotham, what’s a harmless instance of breaking and entering between...reluctant allies. Is that term better for you?” he added spitefully.

“No, that’s not how this is going to work,” Harvey snapped, “You don’t get to hold Jim hostage!”

“I didn’t say he was going to stay as a hostage. I said that, if he was _willing_ to stay, I’d let you go.”

“And that doesn’t sound like coercion to you?”

Penguin rolled his eyes, groaning. “Jim? Can you talk some sense into your partner?”

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Jim replied, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the tension, “Could you give us...a minute though? Just let us talk alone?”

Penguin stared at him with a questioning look. Jim met his stare, giving a brusque nod. It took a minute, but it seemed something in his response reassured Penguin. He returned Jim’s nod, brief and sharp, and walked out of the room, gun in hand as the detectives watched him go.

Jim was about to turn back around to Harvey when he was jerked sharply back. “Harvey, what—”

“What the Hell is going on with you?”

“What?”

“What’s going on here? You almost seem like you’re friendly with _Penguin_. On his side or something. So, what am I missing? Because this sure as Hell isn’t normal.” Harvey’s voice was nearly a growl.

“Nothing, Harv. I’m just trying to deal with the situation.”

“Bull.”

“Excuse me?”

“Jim, is he,” Harvey leaned closer, dropping his voice to a barely-there whisper, “Is he threatening you? Does he have Lee or Barbara or Barbara Lee or something?”

“What? No! God, no.”

“Then what is going on?”

“Look, Harvey, you came in late,” a partial truth. Jim wasn’t about to explain to Harvey that he had missed several hours, one murder confession, and one assault instead of a couple of minutes of conversation, “You didn’t see everything. Nygma is...he’s losing it. More so than I’ve ever seen...And I think he might be willing to get help if he has a good guiding influence. I don’t want that opportunity to go to waste.”

“No offense, Jim,” Harvey snapped, his tone already biting, “But it’s not like you to care _this_ much about a criminal. Because, regardless of any past you have with him or I have with him, that’s what Nygma is: a criminal. If he needs help, why don’t we send him to Arkham? I’m pretty sure he’s still wanted for a bank robbery two months ago.”

“Harvey, we have different experiences with, Ed—”

“Yeah, last I recall, he hasn’t framed me for murder. He framed _you._ What? Are you just planning on pretending that never happened? Because that’s a mistake I know you’ll regret.”

“He’s already served his time for that. He—”

“But he doesn’t regret it!” Harvey shouted, raising his voice past a whisper—albeit a loud one—for the first time since Penguin left. He sighed, dropping his head in his hands, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Harvey, I...I can’t.”

“You can’t? What the Hell am I missing here?! It must be something pretty damned important if you’re about to follow Nygma to God-knows-where for—who the Hell even _knows_ the reason—and get yourself killed. That is how this is going to end, Jim. I’m sorry, but I can’t see an ending to this where you come out totally unharmed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go find a way to get us out of this mess. See if I can find a way to call Arkham or something. You can thank me once you’ve found your common sense again.”

He started to push past Jim when Jim grabbed his arm in a vice-grip. _“Harvey._ Wait. Ed needs help. And you and I both know damned well that he’ll never get that in Arkham! Okay, I understand that it’s strange of me to care so much, to willingly go in blind with him, but I don't think you understand how many people this could save. This is a situation where I think we have the chance to guide Ed back to the path that he was once on. If I can promise him the life he once had, who knows...he might actually _help_ us in fighting back against all the criminals and lunatics and corruption instead of causing it. And, at the end of the day, Ed’s a person. You once said yourself that he needs professional help. If I can have a little time with him, I think I can convince him to get it.”

“You’re doing something really stupid, you know that?” Harvey said, though he was visibly softening with each word, “I mean, God, Jim. _You think?”_

“I know.” He didn’t. But he wanted more than anything to believe this was his chance to undo his mistakes, or at least some of them. This could be his chance to do something he should have done a long time ago: Save Ed.

“You can’t expect me to risk my ass for some harebrained plan to help _Edward Nygma._ You just can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“So what are you asking?”

“I need you to take over at the GCPD. Just for today and tomorrow. I’ll be back after that.”  
Harvey shot him a disbelieving look.  
“Don’t look at me like that.” The look didn’t falter. “And you can rub it in my face all you want if I’m wrong.”

“Good. You deserve that when this backfires,” Harvey quipped with a good-natured, though slightly sad, laugh.

 _“If._ And I do,” Jim replied with an equally gregarious and worry-tinged chuckle.

“I’ll take care of things, but if anything, _anything,_ seems the slightest bit fishy, call me. I’ll come in guns blazing if I need to.”

“I’m sure you will,” Jim replied with a fond smile, “Even if you don’t need to.”

Harvey laughed, walking back towards the foyer before turning around and chiding, “And the next time you take a vacation day, I expect you to stop being so damned self-sacrificing and actually use it for yourself.”

“I can’t promise anything.”

Harvey looked at Jim, his expression sobering as he answered with a solemn smile, “I know.”

~ * ~

Oswald had been standing in the foyer, leaning heavily on his cane as he listened to the two detectives argue in hushed tones. He couldn’t make out everything they said, but he could still hear enough to get the gist of the conversation...and confirm his hatred of Bullock for the thousandth time. He was gritting his teeth, trying to force himself not to walk back into the living room and put a bullet in Bullock’s brain—if he did, indeed, have one—when a firm knock sounded at the mansion’s door. Finally.

He hobbled over to the door, swinging it open. Lucius Fox stood in front of him, several manila folders clutched in one arm while his other arm was grasped tightly in the beefy hand of a member of Oswald’s security team. One could never be too careful; he was the Penguin, after all. 

“Mr. Fox, thank you so much for coming,” he said, a forced smile stretching painfully wide across his face. Oswald needed painkillers, hard liquor, or both to starve off the headache he was getting from the stress of the day, which still was barely past halfway through. “Ivan, Mr. Fox is a guest. There’s no need to manhandle him.”

The goon released Lucius’ arm, and Lucius snatched it away sharply, straightening out the creases in his suit. Oswald could sympathize, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Ivan was starting to head back to his post when Oswald stopped him.

“Ivan?”

“Yes, Mr. Cobblepot?”

“Stay here, won’t you? I have two... _one_ unruly detective in my living room and important things to discuss with Mr. Fox. I’d prefer to have someone keeping an eye on the situation, so I can give my full attention to more urgent matters.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you,” he replied, curtly, before returning his attention to Lucius, “Follow me, please. I apologize for...that. I had my hands rather full and forgot to alert the staff.”

“Not a problem,” Lucius said as he followed Oswald deeper into the mansion, though Oswald had a feeling the man was a bit more bothered by it than he was admitting. 

As they walked deeper into the house, through winding hallways and towards a small, informal sitting room that was rarely used by anyone, Oswald felt a slow sense of dread crawling through his veins, making his stomach churn and his pulse quicken. Lucius had seemed so...disquieted, _upset_ by what he saw. Did Oswald want to know? Wasn’t this a violation of Ed’s privacy? He hadn’t exactly told Ed that Lucius had found anything—though he guessed Ed probably suspected Lucius had found _something_ —and Ed had never been very forthcoming with information regarding his childhood. But Oswald needed to know. He needed to be able to help Ed if something like this happened again. These files were the best place to start. Besides, the end always justifies the means, right?... _Right?_

“Take a seat anywhere you like,” Oswald offered as they entered the room, gesturing to the multitude of armchairs, almost unused despite being years old. Lucius nodded curtly, taking a seat in a large, brown chair near the fireplace.

“Penguin,” Lucius started, unable to make eye contact with the man in front of him, “Um...I’ll give these to you, let you look at them, but...I don’t think you should. It’s...They aren’t—,” he closed his eyes, rubbing down his face with the heels of his palms, “It’s really bad, Oswald. If Nygma hasn’t told you...there’s a good reason.”

Oswald’s heart seized up as it dropped past the pit of his stomach.

“A-all of it?” he choked out.

“Well...none of it is good...But, there are _some_ things you might want to read. I just...There’s a file or two that I have, that...I would recommend you not look at. If he hasn’t told you about it, you know...I wish that _I_ hadn’t. I wish I’d known not to look at it.”

Oswald stared at the ground, struggling to process the idea of possibly going the rest of his life knowing the man he loves has been through something _terrible,_ but never knowing what it _was._ Before now, he never knew much of anything about Ed’s childhood—just that it was unpleasant and that his father was abusive. Ed hadn’t even explicitly said there was physical abuse—or even used the words _abuse_ or _abusive_ —but there were scars and nights spent trying to rouse Ed from dreams that left him pleading and crying to a father who was long gone that filled in those gaps for Oswald. And Oswald knew it was not only physical abuse.

 _He—He was mean. My father made it very clear to me that I was not worth the space I took up, and every breath I took was a waste of oxygen that could be better spent on someone who actually...deserved to be alive,_ rang through Oswald’s head.

“Penguin?”

Oswald looked up at Lucius, something else that Ed had told him during that conversation playing through his head, clear as day, _Sometimes he would convince me that he loved me. He convinced me that I’d_ finally _done something well enough to win his love. He’d do it to get me to tell him things, things I didn’t want to tell him. And I’d fall for it. Every time. Every time I let myself get hurt when he inevitably used it against me. And_ every single time _hurt more than the last. Because I should have seen it coming...but I never did._

“You’re right,” Oswald whispered. “Give me the address and any files that are relevant to what’s going on. Anything else...throw it in the fire or something.”

“Alright...I don’t know everything that’s going on. So, honestly, I don’t know how much is relevant to everything, but I brought death and autopsy reports for both Lore and Harold Nashton, a couple of hospital records, and a few police reports—primarily noise complaints and reports of suspected domestic disputes. They all stopped when Ed was ten. It was very...abrupt.”

“Abrupt?”

“There were reports every few weeks or so and then...nothing. They just stopped.”

“Oh.” Oswald felt his heart sinking, down, down, down to the bottom of his stomach. “I take it they didn’t stop because of an arrest.”

Lucius shook his head, the solemnity in his gaze confirming that he and Oswald held the same suspicions. Oswald sighed, and took held his hand out for the files. He pulled out an address: **142 Millcraft Road, Waterbury, Connecticut**.

After a moment of silence, he looked back up at Lucius, asking, “Do you have access to the Wayne Enterprises database wherever you go?”

“If I have my company laptop with me, I do,” Lucius responded.

“Good. Tell your boss you’re taking the rest of today and tomorrow off.”

“What? Why?”

“We’re going to Connecticut.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and rewrote this chapter several times. I was originally going to have Oswald learn specific details about a major trauma Ed experienced without asking Ed or making Ed aware of it, but opted not to because I didn't want Oswald betraying him in that way. I didn't think a betrayal of that magnitude would have allowed for a continuation of their relationship in the way in currently exists, so I decided against Oswald learning about Ed's trauma in that way. However, we will learn more about Ed's past in Connecticut.


	16. Welcome to Waterbury

It had been no trouble getting to Waterbury. Fortunately, Oswald, Ed, Jim, and Lucius were all in the habit of having a go-bag packed at all times—one could never be too prepared in their positions. All they had to do before leaving, was take Harvey to the GCPD—with a trusted chaperone (or, more accurately, _spy_ ) who would be watching, and _reporting_ , his every move within the GCPD until they returned—pick up Jim’s go-bag while there, and make a brief stop to pick up Lucius’ go-bags. Apparently Lucius required more than one. It wasn’t too far a drive from Gotham to Waterbury, so they were able to get there within a four and a half hour drive—a farther distance in the car than Oswald typically preferred, especially when he could take care of most, if not all, of his business in Gotham, but Ed was worth the cramping Oswald had in his bad leg by the end of the trip. Ed had been nervous, jittery, but, in Oswald’s opinion, had dealt with it quite well, considering the circumstances. Lucius and Jim had stayed quiet and kept a respectful distance. Oswald was both grateful for and resentful of their presence. He was a bit worried about how much they could learn about Ed, but, considering they had already seen so much, and, though he’d never admit it, Oswald not believing he could make it through this trip without the company of someone who wasn’t in the midst of a mental breakdown, he decided not to fight the presence of the two men. Besides, both could be useful if they needed access to records or something else.

Once they’d gotten to Waterbury, Oswald had convinced Ed, who’d become increasingly withdrawn the closer they got to his old hometown, to let them check into a hotel and get a good night’s sleep before going to Ed’s old home. Jim got a room on the third floor—it seemed more people were visiting Waterbury than Oswald had assumed, considering the second floor only had two rooms available. Those two rooms went to Oswald and Ed—single room, two queen beds, and Lucius—single room, single queen bed, and right beside the room Oswald and Ed were sharing. The rooms also had a connecting door, so, if both parties were to unlock it, they could come and go freely, an incredibly convenient feature for Oswald, as he planned to strategize with Lucius about how to get Ed access to his childhood home should it be occupied once Ed went to sleep.

“Do you mind keeping your connecting door unlocked? I just need to make sure Ed is doing alright, but I’d like to talk to you about some things before tomorrow,” Oswald whispered to Lucius as they walked to their rooms, Ed leading the way while Oswald held back to keep in time with Lucius’ steps.

“Not at all,” Lucius replied with a brief nod and tight-lipped smile.

“205,” Ed said flatly, “I believe that’s us.”

“Yep!” Oswald confirmed, forcing a bright smile on his face as he caught up to his roommate, “That’s us.”

“203,” Lucius stated, walking to the door next to them, “Have a good night.”

“You too.” Oswald already felt tired of forcing a chipper demeanor, but he wanted this to be as easy as possible for Ed. If pretending to be happier and more at ease than he actually was had any chance of putting Ed at ease, he was going to do it.

Once they’d unpacked their bags, Oswald and Ed sat together on one of the queen beds in silence. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, and Oswald was looking forward to sleeping in it. Though, that may have been due to fatigue—mental, physical, and emotional—rather than the plush mattress. Oswald was sipping a drink, contemplating potential plans for the next day. Ed was “reading.” In reality, he was staring blankly at a page of a book; he hadn’t turned the page in nearly twenty minutes.

“Ed?” Oswald looked over at the man beside him when he received no response, “Ed?”

Edward continued looking at the page with an empty stare.

“Eddie?” he asked, softer, putting his hand over Ed’s.

Ed seemed to shake himself from his trance in slow motion—a slow shake of his head, a slow turn of his head, and slow blinking before meeting Oswald’s eyes. “Sorry. What?”

“Hey,” Oswald near-whispered, a pitying smile stretching across his face without permission, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Ed looked down at his hand, where Oswald was tracing gentle circles with his thumb. “I don’t think so.”

“Ed, look at me,” Oswald commanded, “If there is anything I can do for you, anything at all, whether it is tiny or massive, tell me, and I will do it without hesitation.”

He received a shy, sad smile and Ed interweaving their fingers for a response. Silence fell over the room once again.

After an hour, Ed suddenly broke the quiet, “Do we have to sleep separately?”

“What? No. Not if you don’t want to. Why would you think that?”

“Well, you specifically asked for a room with _two_ beds—”

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald let out a small puff of laughter, “The reason for that was twofold. One: I wanted you to have the option of sleeping by yourself if you needed some space. And, two: Lucius and Jim.”

Ed stared at him, confused, before laughing in realization, “Hah! I can’t believe I forgot.”

“Speaking of bed, do you want to go to sleep?” he asked with a glance at the clock: **8:17 PM**.

“It’s a bit early, don’t you think?” Ed asked, sliding down the propped up pillows and rolling to face him.

“Well, normally, yes, but...tomorrow is going to be—”

“Stop.”

Oswald shut his mouth immediately. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps apologize, but no sound would come out; instead he sat, looking down at Ed and gaping like a fish.

“...Uh, um—I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” he spluttered. 

Ed sighed. “It’s fine. It’s not you. I just...I’m anxious enough about going there, but every time I’ve thought about it since getting here, I feel like I should just _be there_ already, and I’m _not._ And it—it leaves me even more uncomfortable, and I have no desire to think about it. Because I know it’s a good idea to have tonight to recuperate, and I want to be able to relax, but I can’t when I’m thinking about tomorrow.”

Ed’s voice had continually gotten more choked up and higher in pitch as he spoke, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. Oswald immediately wrapped his arms around Ed, pulling him up and into a tight hug. “ _Shh, shh,_ ” he soothed, “Okay. We won’t talk about it. Let’s just...let’s—”

“Distract ourselves?” Ed finished, big brown eyes peering up at Oswald.

Oswald smiled fondly, “Yes.”

Ed slid back to lie down, dragging Oswald with him. He pulled Oswald’s arms around himself and laid his head on Oswald’s chest, still covered by his button-down and vest, but free from his jacket. He craned his neck to look up at Oswald, giving Oswald a chaste kiss when he moved his head down to meet Ed’s lips.

“Do you know how you could distract me?” Ed asked.

“How?”

In lieu of a verbal response, Ed grasped Oswald’s shoulders, rolling over so he was lying with his back flat on the mattress and Oswald was draped on top of him. He moved his left hand behind Oswald’s neck and his right to cup Oswald’s cheek, pulling him down into a kiss—far longer than the one from a moment before and noticeably less chaste, though Oswald wouldn’t go so far as to say it was salacious.

Oswald was quite surprised by the sudden ravaging of his mouth, but he returned the kiss enthusiastically. As they broke apart, Oswald huffed a laugh. He smirked down at Ed, whose eyes were locked intensely on his face, “That is certainly an effective distraction.”

Ed grinned back up at him, panting lightly, “Agreed.”

"Might I ask why you've chosen this _particular_ method of distraction? Not that I'm complaining," Oswald asked, a curious but self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

"Well...Being here brings back...unhappy memories. I don't want those to be real. I don't want anything to be real right now...except you and me. And when we're doing this," Ed breathed with a laugh, "I don't feel like anything else has to exist. It's just you and me...And I feel so loved. And that's...that's what I need right now."

Rolling them to face each other on their sides, Oswald initiated another kiss, pulling Ed as close to himself as he could manage.

After about thirty more minutes, Ed finally let go of Oswald, placing a light kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered into Oswald’s hair.

“I love you, dear,” Oswald whispered back, “I love you so, so much.”

Ed smiled at him, some mix of sad and enamored, “I love you too, Oswald.”

“Get some rest, Eddie. I might go get something to eat in a bit, so if you wake up and I’m not here, that is most likely why.”

“Are you worried I’ll panic?” Ed teased.

Instead of responding, Oswald placed a light kiss on Ed’s cheek.

“Get some sleep, darling,” he ordered gently, as he disappeared into the suite’s bathroom.

As Oswald looked himself over in the mirror, he was glad he decided to check his appearance while waiting for Ed to fall asleep. He looked a bit too disheveled to feel comfortable approaching Lucius in his state. His hair was mussed, his cheeks were flushed, and his shirt and vest were rumpled and no longer tucked into his suit pants. While he couldn’t go out and change without alerting Ed and making him suspicious or waking him if he’d already fallen asleep, he could at least tuck his shirt back in and smooth out the wrinkles a little bit.

After a great deal of fussing, and nearly forty minutes of making himself ‘presentable’, Oswald quietly exited the bathroom, relieved to see the room dark and Ed fast asleep in one of the beds. Oswald grabbed his cane and walked as lightly as he could towards the door connecting their room with Lucius’, all the while thanking God for the padded carpet that masked the thump of his cane and uneven footsteps. Upon unlocking their side and opening the door just a crack, he was glad to see Lucius’ door wide open and room lowly lit. There was less of a chance of waking Ed this way. He slipped into the room and closed the door behind him, as quickly and quietly as he could.

“Evening,” Lucius said, looking up from a book he was reading. He was sat to one side of the large bed, clad in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. It was odd for Oswald to see him so casual. After all, they were acquaintances at best, and Oswald almost felt like he was invading the man’s privacy.

“Hello,” he replied after a long pause, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all.”

“Good,” Oswald said, approaching the bed, unsure if he should get on it, “I apologize for the delay. He took a while to fall asleep.”

“Does he not know—”

“I thought it would be best if he didn’t have to think about it.”

Lucius gave an understanding nod.

“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing for Oswald to join him on the bed, “I would offer you a chair, but, as you can see, there aren’t any.”

Oswald gave a brisk nod, leaning his cane on the nightstand before climbing onto the bed in as dignified a manner as possible.

“We need to have a plan for tomorrow. I don’t know if the house is occupied or not, so we need to have a strategy to deal with any potential residents. If it’s not occupied, we still need an excuse as to why we are there. I doubt the sight of four unfamiliar men breaking into an abandoned house would put any neighbors at ease.”

“That is wise,” Lucius agreed, falling silent as a pensive expression clouded his face.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Do we know that the house is still there? What if it’s been demolished? Does he actually have to go _inside_ the house?”

“I know it’s still standing. Beyond that, I couldn’t find any information on the house.”

Lucius nodded, slowly.

“Do you already have an idea of how we’ll be getting into the house if it is vacant?”

“A lock picking kit,” Oswald replied, as though it were the most obvious thing on the planet.

“Right...And to explain our presence?”

“We’re real estate developers trying to find properties in Waterbury.”

“And if the house is occupied?”

“...That’s what I need help with.”

After nearly an hour scheming, they were able to come up with both a plan and a backup plan to gain access to Ed’s childhood home should it be occupied. Both plans involved Jim Gordon, however, and the man was not answering his phone.

“He must be sleeping,” Lucius mused.

Oswald sighed deeply. “Can I trust you to update him in the morning? I think Ed might need...emotional support, so I don’t know how available I’ll be.”

“I can take care of it,” Lucius confirmed.

“Thank you,” Oswald answered, giving a soft, genuine smile, “I truly appreciate you doing this for Ed...He’s...He’s a good person at heart. People just don’t give him the chance to prove it.”

“I know. And you are welcome.”

Oswald stared at him for a moment, wondering if that was why Ed had always spoken so fondly of the man in front of him. He seemed to be the only person from Ed’s old life who was still willing to see the good inside him.

“Have a good night, Lucius. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Oswald gave a polite nod to punctuate his goodbye, climbing out of the bed and making his way back towards his room. He was thoroughly exhausted from the day, and made his way to the bathroom. After changing into his pajamas as quickly as he could, he decided he’d worry about a shower in the morning, falling into bed beside Ed, who immediately nuzzled into him. He wrapped one arm around Ed’s sleeping frame, burying his head into the crook of Ed’s neck and plastering himself along Ed’s lanky body as he fell into a deep sleep.

~ * ~

Lucius had just finished brushing his teeth and was about to climb in bed when he noticed Penguin’s cane resting against the bedside table. The man had seemed quite tired when he left the room, and his mind was already splitting focus on several different things, so Lucius wasn’t too surprised he’d forgotten the cane. He debated whether or not to try the connecting door—enough time had passed that Penguin could already be asleep, and it was unlikely the door to Penguin and Nygma’s room had been left unlocked. Still, Lucius figured it would probably make the morning go a lot more smoothly if Penguin didn’t have to limp around unassisted for an hour or two before even going to Ed’s childhood home, so he decided to try the door.

To Lucius’ surprise, when he opened his door, he found that Penguin had not only left the door to his room unlocked, he had left it part-way open. He must have been even more tired than Lucius realized.

As quietly as he could, Lucius slipped his arm through the crack in the door, propping the cane against the wall. Once it was balanced, he started to retreat back into his room. He looked up as he went to close Penguin and Nygma’s door properly and saw the two men curled up in bed, illuminated by the faint glow of the light form Lucius’ own room. They were sleeping in the same bed and wrapped tightly around each other, despite the presence of one clearly empty bed right next to the one they were sleeping in.

How odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness! 1000 hits? On one work?! 
> 
> Thank you all so much! I cannot put into words how immensely delighted I am that so many people are enjoying my work and that so many of you keep coming back to read new chapters!
> 
> I hope I can continue to create works that people enjoy and continue to improve my writing and creative thinking skills in the process.


	17. Where They Played House

Ed was panicking. He knew he was.

He also knew he was making things difficult. But it wasn’t as though he could help it. He needed an outlet for all the anxiety coursing through his veins.

Ed paced back and forth across the compact hotel room. The floor was strewn with clothes from Ed’s suitcase, because his overwhelming fear had left him unable to make even such a simple decision as picking out which shirt to wear. It wasn’t that he was actually worried about looking presentable for the day, the clothes were just the outlet that bore the brunt of his crippling anxiety at the moment. His arms were shaking, hands balled into fists, and eyes brimming with tears as Ed _tried_ —rather ineffectually—to calm his breathing.

He heard the click of a lock turning and quickly turned his head to stare out the window, away from the door.

“Alright!” As Oswald entered, his voice rang through the room, along with the crinkle of a paper bag, “I found a café down the street. I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I got a lot of things. Bagels, muffins—Ed?”

He reluctantly met Oswald’s eyes just as the door clicked shut. Ed was sure he must have been quite the sight: shirtless, hair in disarray, fighting back tears, glasses missing, and shaking like a leaf.

“Oh, Eddie,” Oswald sighed, pitying, his shoulders sinking. He placed a brown bag—Ed assumed it contained their breakfast—on the small desk that held a lamp near the entryway to the room and walked over to Ed.

Before he could even realize what he was doing, Ed had wrapped his arms around Oswald, collapsed into his comforting embrace, and started sobbing—gulping, shaky breaths racking his whole body.

Oswald returned his hug, gently stroking his hand up and down the bare skin of Ed’s back, occasionally murmuring hushed words of comfort into his ear. After Ed had calmed down somewhat, and was no longer hyperventilating, he pulled himself away from Oswald, sniffling and quickly wiping away his tears.

“What can I do?” Oswald asked, voice almost a whisper, and noticeably refraining from reaching after Ed.

“I—I need help...choosing...I can’t...a shirt. I need a shirt,” he slowly stammered, staring emptily at the shirts littered across the floor. He was so tired already. It felt like his veins had been filled with lead, growing heavier and heavier with each movement he tried to make.

“I can do that,” Oswald replied with a smile. “Here,” he said, tenderly taking one of Ed’s arms in his grasp and sitting him on the edge of the unused bed.

Ed couldn’t do anything but allow Oswald to guide him. He stared blankly ahead of him, trying to keep his mind clear of unwanted memories until he’d at least arrived at the house.

Oswald surveyed the mess on the floor, searching for something Ed could wear, and picked out a deep pine green sweater to go over a steel blue button-up. Ed sat, unmoving and pliant, as he let Oswald dress him. Oswald attentively buttoned Ed’s shirt, moving Ed’s limp arms into the sleeves of the sweater and pulling it over Ed’s head once he’d finished with the shirt.

“Alright,” Oswald’s voice echoed, soft and distant, “I’m going to make you a plate of some of the food I got, and we’re going to have breakfast. Do you think you can do that?”

Ed nodded vaguely. He mindlessly ran his hand up and down the arm of his sweater. Soft. It was comforting. It reminded him of a sweater his mother would always wear around Christmas. Ed remembered climbing in her lap and snuggling against the soft sweater as they listened to a record of Die Dreigroschenoper, since she never much cared for most Christmas music. He could almost hear his mother humming along with the songs.

The bed dipped beside him as Oswald sat down next to him, a two plates packed with fruit, bagels, and breakfast pastries in hand.

“Anything look good?” Oswald asked. 

Ed realized he must have been taking too long to respond. He smiled half-heartedly and took a bagel with cream cheese off one of the plates. Ed didn’t really want to eat anything; he was already nauseous. After forcing himself to eat half the bagel, he laid the plate on the bed beside him and turned towards Oswald, who was in the middle of eating his second muffin.

“Ozzie?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For everything. For helping me this morning, for bringing me here. Just...thank you.”

Oswald smiled sweetly at him, drawing Ed into a tight hug.

~ * ~

Lucius and Jim were sitting in the hotel lobby, waiting. It was half past eight in the morning. They had agreed to try to leave between eight and nine. Lucius had informed Jim of the plans to get into the house if they faced any issues, and Jim seemed to be on board, if begrudgingly.

He still didn’t know much of why they were there. Beyond the fact that Ed was even less in his right mind than normal and he had asked to come here, Lucius knew very little about the current situation. While he was tempted to ask, he wanted to respect the man’s privacy. If he needed to know something, someone would tell him.

Despite himself, Lucius was also quite intrigued to see the place Ed grew up. He had always assumed Ed had a rather typical childhood in terms of upbringing, something the numerous police reports he saw for Ed’s childhood address proved wrong. He wondered if any of his other assumptions about Ed’s early life were wrong. 

Lucius tried to focus on the crossword puzzle in front of him as he waited. Jim sat across from him, silently reading a newspaper.

A _ding_ from the direction of the elevator had both Lucius’ and Jim’s heads turning to see Penguin and Ed walking towards them.

“Morning,” Jim greeted gruffly.

Lucius supplied a kind smile and slightly awkward wave to the two men. Edward looked...inscrutable. Penguin, however, looked like he’d already had a difficult morning—shoulders tense, eyes weary, and grip on his cane white-knuckled.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Penguin said with a forced smile, “Lucius, do you have the address?”

“I do.”

“Wonderful. Shall we get going?”

All four men shuffled out to the car, the early fall air nipping exposed skin. Jim offered to drive, much, it seemed, to Penguin’s relief. Lucius sat in the front passenger seat, leaving Oswald and Ed to sit together in the back.

“Do we need to stop for breakfast? Have you two eaten?” Ed asked, breaking his silence for the first time that morning.

“I ate,” Jim said.

“I did too. Thank you, though, Ed...Do you need to get something to eat?” Lucius inquired. Ed shook his head briskly.

As they drove, Lucius paid attention to the houses around them—old but well cared for houses in the colonial revival style, painted in pastels. The houses looked nice, seemed fairly spacious, and sported small, carefully maintained gardens in front of them. It seemed to be one of the wealthier parts of Waterbury.

When they passed a light blue house, smaller than most of the others on the street, Ed spoke up. “We’re getting close.”

Jim looked down at the GPS and nodded, turning right. The street they turned onto was narrower, the houses smaller and not quite as well maintained, though not shoddy by any means. Lucius glanced up at the rearview mirror to see how Ed was doing. He was clutching Oswald’s hand, while Oswald rested his free hand on Edward’s thigh, mindlessly stroking his hand up and down the pant leg. Lucius thought about seeing the two of them last night, sleeping close together in the same bed. He had an inkling he was beginning to gain an understanding of the notoriously odd relationship between the two men.

Lucius was startled out of his musings when Jim took a sharp left-hand turn onto a side street out of the blue.

“Sorry,” Jim huffed, “I didn’t realize I had to turn here.”

The car slowly rolled to a stop. The houses on this street were quite different from the others they had just driven past. It seemed to be, to put it plainly, a slum. The street was uncomfortably narrow, lined on either side by dilapidated townhouses. There seemed to be just as many abandoned houses as occupied ones. Paint was peeling off the exteriors of houses that still had any left, wooden steps leading to doorways were rotting through, windows were barred, the small yards were either dead or overgrown, and graffiti covered the front doors and exterior walls of several of the townhouses that seemed to be empty. Lucius was shocked. This wasn’t at all what he had expected.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” Jim asked, voicing Lucius’, and seemingly Oswald’s—judging by the look of startled horror on his face—thoughts.

“Yes,” Ed breathed, shakily, pointing to a townhouse on the opposite side of the street. “That’s—that’s my home. That’s where I grew up.”

“Alright,” Lucius said slowly as Jim turned off the car. “Would you like to go in?”

~ * ~

Oswald had not been prepared for the sight of Ed’s childhood home. He had no idea that Ed grew up in a place like... _this._

He was startled when Ed wrenched his hand free from where their hands had been entwined. It took him a moment to make himself move to follow Ed out of the car. Ed and Lucius were already making their way towards the townhouse and Jim was locking up the car as Oswald rushed to catch up to the two men, hobbling as quickly as he could manage. They walked up to chain-link fence in front of 142 Millcraft Road, which was only waist high and falling apart, quite literally—some panels were torn, others knocked down altogether. The gate was hanging off all but one of its hinges, and the tiny stretch of yard was littered with empty liquor bottles and beer cans. Lucius walked straight through the gate, but Ed stopped, and, consequently, stopped Oswald and Jim, who were directly behind him.

“Ed?” Oswald asked, noticing the sudden stiffness in Ed’s stance. “Edward?”

“Um…” Ed said, turning around slowly, hands fluttering nervously by his sides. “I—Uh…”

“Are you okay?” Jim asked.

“U-u-um—” Ed stuttered, his breathing becoming far too rapid for Oswald’s liking.

“Edward,” Oswald said, taking Ed by the arms and looking him in the eye, “We can go back. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. We can go back to the hotel, back to Gotham, wherever, and no one here will judge you.”

“No,” he replied harshly, “No, I _need_ to do this...I just...need a moment.”

“Okay.” Oswald released Ed’s arms and stepped back, signaling Jim to do the same and give him space.

“Okay,” Ed whispered to himself, “Okay, okay, okay. You can do this, Ed. Okay.” He huffed and turned to Oswald, “Can you...Can you walk in ahead of me?”

“Of course I can,” Oswald said, offering him a comforting smile. Walking ahead of Ed, he entered the yard, which reeked of stale beer and mildew...and they weren’t even inside the house yet. He reached the door, nearly slipping on his way up the rotten wood steps. A large padlock held a chain, extending from somewhere behind two partially-boarded windows on either side of the dirt-stained door, together in front of it. Pulling out his lock picking kit, he turned to Ed, who was, surprisingly, right behind him. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

Ed nodded.

“Alright,” Oswald acquiesced, “Lucius. If you’d be so kind.”

Lucius moved out of his way, granting Oswald access to lock.

~ * ~

As Oswald picked the lock to the house, Lucius felt someone grab his hand. He fought his natural inclination to jerk away from the unexpected touch, looking back to see Ed worrying his lip between his teeth and feeling the man gripping his hand for dear life. It was odd, to say the least, but if it was what Ed needed, then he supposed it was fine. This was clearly a stressful situation for the man.

Ed’s grasp on his hand also had the distracting effect of leading Lucius’ mind to they way Ed acted with Penguin. While some things he’d noticed over the past day led him to believe Ed and Penguin’s relationship may possibly be more romantic in nature than he’d initially considered, things like this—Ed holding his hand—confused him. Lucius supposed that was why the two men had such an infamously confusing relationship. They were both eccentric men who did not conform to the societal norms and often expressed emotions in... _different_ ways than the average person. While other people acting in the way they do would usually lead others to the conclusion they were romantically involved, with Ed and Penguin it was less clear. Lucius wouldn’t be shocked to learn that Ed and Penguin treat all their very close friends in ways that could easily be misconstrued as romantic by an outside observer. He also wouldn’t be shocked to learn that Ed and Penguin treat all their very close friends in ways that could easily be misconstrued as hateful by an outside observer. Honestly, Lucius was at a loss. He supposed it wasn’t really any of his business, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the two.

Fortunately, his mind was drawn to more important things when he felt Ed tense beside him. He looked up to see that Penguin had managed to pick the lock, throw the chains aside, and was swinging open the door. Lucius gave a reassuring squeeze to the hand still desperately clutching his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long break between chapters! Real life has been insanely busy recently, but I've managed to devote a little more time to writing over the past few days, so hopefully the next couple of chapters will be out soon!


	18. Where They Played House Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been forever! BUT at least this chapter is extra long!
> 
> Quick warning: This chapter does get a little bit graphic a couple of times, but it's nothing worse than we'd see in the show.

“Ed.”

“…Ed?” a voice echoed from somewhere far, far away.

Ed was staring down a tunnel. His peripheral vision was entirely blacked out, leading his focus to the point which the enveloping darkness framed. It was blurry, almost as though he didn’t have his glasses. Dizzying.

He was vaguely aware of the presence of a person at his side, but he couldn’t focus enough to determine who it was. His mouth was dry, throat filled with cotton that was slowly cutting off his airway as a new tuft was added with each passing second. It was like being buried alive, slow and methodical and inescapable. His heart was pounding in his chest, in his throat, in the side of his head—a painful _thump, thump, thump_ that seemed determined to avoid a steady rhythm. Until—

“Ed,” Lucius’ voice broke through as Ed felt a hand on each of his arms. Ed’s vision focused enough to see that Lucius was in front of him, looking into his eyes with a concerned expression. “Breathe, Ed. Just breathe. Everything is going to be alright.”

“I—” Ed tried to speak, only managing the first word, which sounded more like incoherent wheezing than anything. It was at that moment that Ed realized how loudly and erratically he was breathing, how violently he was trembling, and noticed the presence of tears pouring down his cheeks. He bent over, coughing harshly as he tried to gulp in air between shuddering sobs.

“It’s okay, Ed. Don’t try to talk. You don’t need to say anything right now,” came Lucius’ calm, sure voice. “All you need to do is breathe, Ed. Look at me.” Ed met his eyes, somewhat reluctant. Lucius’ soft, brown eyes were staring back at him, with all the patience and care in the world. It was...odd. Nice, but odd. “Breathe. That is all you need to do right now. Just breathe.”

Lucius took a visibly deep breath in, and Ed mimicked the action. It took a few moments, but Ed began to calm down. His breathing steadied, his heart slowed down to its normal rhythm, and he no longer felt a sense of impending death. Impending doom, however, that was a different matter.

“Thank you,” Ed half-whispered as he straightened, looking past Lucius and into his childhood home. He started walking forward, Lucius stepping to the side to make way for him. Though it was only a few steps, Ed felt like he was beginning a death march. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he stepped through the doorway, into the foyer of the home he left behind so many years ago, stepping into a place, a life, he had never had any intention of returning to.

~ * ~

Jim was still in a state of mild shock as he walked up the three wooden steps and into Edward Nygma’s childhood home. He’d been surprised enough to see the kind of area Ed grew up in, to see the inside was something else. It was a glimpse into the life of Ed’s childhood, a house preserved in time. If it weren’t for the dust, it would almost look as though the house were still lived in.

The door led into a small foyer with stairs against the left wall leading to a second floor and old, grey-blue wallpaper plastered on the top half of the wall, dark brown wood paneling covering the half beneath it. To the right was an arched opening leading into what looked like a family room, complete with old, ratty furniture and a vintage television. Straight ahead was a hallway, though it wasn’t clear where the narrow passage went.

As the last person to walk in, he was able to take in the space around him for a moment before looking to his right to see how Ed was doing. The man was clearly shaken, though that wasn’t exactly surprising. Hell, everyone else was shaken, and they didn’t even have emotional connections to the house.

Jim felt his phone buzz in his pocket. After checking to see that no one was looking, he discreetly checked the screen. Harvey. Again. He had barely gotten any sleep the night before, bombarded as he was with texts and phone calls from seven o’clock on throughout the night, during which he had to convince Harvey _not_ to do anything moronic and _not_ to come to Connecticut. Of course this was yet another text from Harvey, trying to convince Jim that he _needed_ to be there. Frankly, Jim didn’t think that would help; if anything, it would hurt his chances of finally getting through to Nygma.

As he was about to reply, Jim heard a noise, jolting him to attention. Ed was standing, frozen in the entrance to the family room, facing left, and staring at something just past where the wall extended to block Jim’s vision. He slipped his phone into his pocket silently, quickly walking over to see what was happening.

He could hear Ed mumbling something to himself as he approached the three men, Oswald and Lucius standing by, seemingly at a loss as to what they could do.

~ * ~

Oswald had a sinking feeling in his gut when he saw the way Ed’s eyes widened as they walked into the living room. As Ed had looked around the room, his eyes had locked on a space between the light yellow wallpaper—which was dotted with small, pink flowers and large golden-brown stains—and an old bookcase. He then stiffened, his hands started to shake, and he started mumbling quietly to himself. And Oswald was fairly certain he knew why. He was all too aware of the monsters that lurked in the shadows of Ed’s mind.

“Ed,” Oswald started, carefully, “Who—What are you looking at?”

Ed, shaking himself from his trance-like focus, slowly turned to look at Oswald. His gaze focused just beyond Oswald as he answered. “Nothing.”

Oswald looked behind himself to see Jim and Lucius staring concernedly at Ed. Despite everything they had learned in the past day, Oswald wasn’t surprised that Ed wasn’t forthcoming about _this_ with those two in the room. He knew Ed was haunted by ghosts—illusions that taunted him from shadowy corners and brightly lit stages alike. It would not shock Oswald if Ed saw one here, visiting his childhood home for the first time in years to try to determine whether or not he killed his father. He desperately hoped Ed’s father was not the spectral tormentor Ed was seeing at the moment.

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Lucius inquired.

Oswald sighed. Thank God for Lucius. Oswald shuddered slightly...He’d had that thought _far_ too frequently in the past twenty-four hours.

~ * ~

Lucius waited until Ed nodded his head in confirmation. “Is there a specific room you would like to go to?”

“Just somewhere else. Not this room,” Ed answered.

Lucius nodded, understanding Ed was clearly distressed by something in the room. He stepped forward and gently took Ed by the elbow, leading him towards a narrow doorway on the left side of the living room. It led down a short, narrow hallway and into a retro-style kitchen. A pale yellow refrigerator and an identically colored gas stove were connected by white wooden cabinets with pale blue laminate countertops. Lucius even noticed a washing machine in the corner of the kitchen. 

Lucius’ breath caught as his eyes traveled across the floor, noticing, even with the room’s low lighting, what looked like old blood stains in the light maple floorboards. Ed, however, seemed to pay it no mind, immediately moving towards the window above the sink to draw the curtains and let more light in.

“Do we know if the electricity is still on?” Jim questioned, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the house.

“It’s unlikely,” Ed replied, the most composed Lucius had seen him since they’d arrived in Waterbury. “The house looks exactly the same as it did when I left. I haven’t been here in more than a decade. I don’t even know how everything is still here. I would’ve guessed it would have been stolen or taken by a bank by now.”

That didn’t make sense.

“You don’t own this house?” Lucius pressed, looking at Ed curiously. Ed was right. This house certainly shouldn’t be just as he left it unless he or another member of his family still owned the house.

“No.” Ed turned towards Lucius, his own quizzical expression mirrored in Ed’s eyes. Lucius had a sinking feeling in his gut like he had said the wrong thing when recognition, then pain, flashed across Ed’s face.

“Okay,” Oswald cut in. “Ed, do you want to walk around the whole house? Take a look at everything and see where you want to go from there?”

Everyone in the room looked at Ed.

“Alright.”

~*~

As Ed walked through the house, he felt strangely numb. From the kitchen to the dining room, which looked just as it always did. It was one of those rooms no one was ever allowed to use. Dust that hid the smooth, cherry oak of the table was the only real difference Ed could detect. As they walked down the hall that connect that dining room to the small foyer, Ed determinedly kept his eyes forward, refusing to look to his left. He was afraid of seeing something again.

“Ed,” a voice called from the direction of the room.

Not thinking, Ed looked towards the living room only to be greeted by the sight of his father—skin a sickly gray, lips blue, eyes so glazed over they almost looked white, and a rope tied around his neck, hanging off to the side. Ed was so frightened he physically jumped back. He stared into the dead eyes that still managed to hold such anger, waiting for something—A taunt? An insult? An assault? He wasn’t sure.

 _“This is all your fault,”_ his father growled, the blue tinge to his skin slowly melting away to a normal color. _“Remember when things were fine? When things were good?”_ The man stepped towards him, the rope falling away and life returning to all his features. He looked like the man Edward had remembered, just aged by a decade or so. His rotund frame was dressed in jeans, a light gray t-shirt—stained, of course—and worker’s boots. His hair, formerly a red-tinged blonde with gray strands occasionally woven through it, was now gray and white with the odd reddish-blonde lock. His eyes, frighteningly reminiscient, nearly identical, to Ed’s, were surrounded by prominent wrinkles, somehow softening the malice within them. His father continued to walk towards him until they were nearly toe to toe. _“What’s the matter, Edward? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”_

Ed couldn’t respond. Couldn’t move. He tried to remind himself it was just a hallucination.

It was just a hallucination...wasn’t it?

 _“Does that really matter at this point? It doesn’t change the fact that you,_ Edward Nashton _, are the reason I’m dead. It’s all. Your._ Fault.”

His father’s face was so close to his, teeth bared in a snarl, breath reeking of stale liquor, and Ed almost thought his father was going to bite him—tear Ed’s throat out with his teeth and watch him bleed to death.

And then his father was gone, replaced by Jim’s confused and concerned face a few feet away. 

“You alright?”

“Right as rain,” Ed replied, though he had a feeling that the fact that his voice was a breathless whisper gave away that he was, in no way, shape, or form, alright. He took a step back, stumbling into Oswald and nearly knocking the shorter man to the ground. Ed spun around, seeing an almost fearful expression in Oswald’s eyes. He backed up, looking at the three men who were all staring at him as if he was insane.

 _“Aren’t you insane?”_

Scratch that. Four men—thanks to his father’s better late than never policy as he appeared behind the three men.

 _“But what about your punishments? Those were always on time,”_ his father jeered.

Ed needed to get away from here.

“Um. I will...uh,” Ed chuckled nervously as he started backing up the stairs leading to the second floor, “I—M-my room. I’m going to go see...my room.”

Ed turned around and ran up the stairs.

 _“Go ahead and run, you coward,”_ he heard his father shout after him, _“You can’t run from the truth. This is your fault, Ed. It is_ all _your fault.”_

Ed darted down the hall and into his room, slamming the door behind him.

“Damn it,” he whispered as he slumped against the door, tears starting to roll down his cheeks.

~*~

What the Hell had just happened? Ed seemed to be doing fairly well as they walked through the home, then, he just froze with an odd look on his face. It hadn’t been more than a few seconds before Jim asked if he was okay, but that seemed to send Ed into a panic.

Oswald shared a brief look of confusion with Jim and Lucius but was quickly shaken out of his inaction by the sound of a door slamming up the stairs. He rushed up the steps, nearly flinging himself up every other step in order to compensate for the decreased speed on his bad leg.

“Ed?” he called as he reached the landing. There was a wall to his left, so Oswald’s only option was to head to the right and check all the rooms to see which one Ed was in. Or, he realized as he drew close enough to see all four of the doors on that floor, he could already tell which one Ed was in since there was only one room with its door closed.

He quickly limped up to the door, knocking softly as he placed his hand on the doorknob, not turning it just yet.

“Ed?” he said, in his most calming voice.

~*~

Ed heard a muffled voice he recognized as Oswald’s coming from the other side of the door. He was about to get up when the sound of a lock turning interrupted him. Startled, Ed jerked to the side and saw a pair of long, lean legs beside him, leading up to a familiar face.

 _“Well, that takes care of that.”_

“Riddler? You’re back?”

 _“Sorry it took so long,”_ Riddler replied, somewhere between apologetic and goading.

“Why did you lock the door?” Ed looked up at him, bewildered.

 _“Come on, Ed. They don’t need to see you like this,”_ Riddler said, gesturing to all of Ed and stepping aside to reveal a mirror. Ed looked at his reflection. His face was red, his eyes were puffy, and his cheeks were glistening with both old and new tears. _“They don’t need to see you_ weak. _They aren’t entitled to that.”_

“They’ve seen a lot of me being weak over the past...however long it’s been. I can’t even remember,” Ed said with a groan, “I don’t think one more time will matter.”

He stood up turning to unlock the door...until Riddler appeared in front of him, blocking his way.

 _“So?”_ he challenged.

“‘So’ what?”

_“If someone came into your HQ once, would that give them the right to barge in whenever they damn please just because they’d been there before?”_

“No?”

_“Exactly. Just because Jim and Lucius—Hell, even Oswald—saw you weak and vulnerable, does not give them the right to see it again. You don’t want them to see this.”_

“I don’t?” Ed asked, feeling so tired and lost he wasn’t even sure how to think for himself in the moment. Maybe he was thinking for himself but just couldn’t separate the jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings swirling around his head.

 _“No, you don’t, Ed. You don’t even want to be here right now. Why should they get to see you when you don’t want to feel anything? They’ll_ force _you to feel something, whether they mean to or not.”_

Ed suddenly felt a sharp pain across his forearm. He looked down and saw a large gash, blood dripping down his arm in crimson streams and a liquor bottle’s glass shards sticking out of the wound. Ed stared at the injury.

“Do you see this?” Ed asked, looking up at Riddler.

Riddler looked to where Ed was pointing, an uneasy look on his face.

“Is it real?” Ed questioned. He felt this strange, seemingly impossible combination of pain and numbness, like he was halfway between reality and a dream.

~*~

Jim watched Penguin’s expression grow panicked upon the sound of a lock clicking. The shorter man tried to turn the knob with no success.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He stepped back and discreetly pulled it out to check it. Jim’s breath caught in his throat when he saw what was on his screen.

_**Lee: Care to explain why Harvey says you left Gotham with Penguin and Edward Nygma?** _

“Damn!” he cursed under his breath. This was very, very bad. His attention was drawn away when he heard Penguin talking, voice shaking with poorly contained worry.

“Ed, will you please unlock the door?”

“Damn,” Jim muttered again, glances darting between the door and his phone.

“Ed?” Lucius called with a knock on the door.

As quickly as he could, Jim typed out a message—

 _ **Long story. Will explain later.**_

— and hit send before slipping the phone back in his pocket and joining the others at the door to Ed’s room.

“What is he doing in there?” Penguin asked, turning to face Jim and Lucius. “You don’t think he’d...hurt himself...do you?”

_Damn._

~*~

“Riddler?” Ed asked, staring at Riddler’s vacant expression. He could see Riddler, but it was like Riddler had completely left, an empty shell staring at Ed’s arm the only thing that remained. “Riddler?”

It took a moment, but Riddler seemed to shake himself and looked back at Ed’s face with an uncomfortable, tight-lipped smile.

 _“It’s fine. It’s nothing,”_ he assured, curtly.

Ed glanced back down at his forearm, now wrapped in a sea of red and crimson.

“You’re sure?” Ed questioned, hesitantly.

 _“Of course I am,”_ Riddler replied, but something about his voice still seemed off.

◈

_“So, are you going to tell me what the Hell happened to you?”_

_“Nothing.”_

◇

_“What do you say to anyone who asks if you’re okay?”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“That’s right. Good job, little man!”_

⬩

 _“What am I supposed to do with_ this?” a voice that sounded like himself or Riddler demanded.

 _“You are a smart man. I’m sure you will figure something out,”_ a feminine voice responded; it was strangely familiar.

Ed couldn’t remember hearing this before. Was this happening right now?

 _“He is_ psychotic. **Literally psychotic.** _I don’t even know what he’s seeing. What do you expect me to do with that?”_ Riddler’s voice snapped.

_“Alright. I will need a few minutes.”_

_“Wait! Where are you_ —ugh!”

◇

_“Are you alright, Edward? I’ve noticed you haven’t been playing with the other children during recess for the past few days.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_“Well then, why aren’t you playing with the other kids?”_

_“I hurt my leg.”_

_“Oh! I’m sorry about that, Edward. How did you hurt it?”_

◇

_“What do you tell people who ask how you got hurt?”_

_“That it was an accident. It was my fault.”_

_“And why do you tell them that?”_

_“Because it’s my fault.”_

_“Maybe you aren’t as stupid as I thought.”_

◇

_“It was an accident. I fell down the stairs.”_

_“Oh my God. Are you sure you’re alright, Edward?”_

_“I’m fine. It was my fault, anyway.”_

⬩

 _“And you are sure you cannot handle him on your own?”_ that same female voice from earlier echoed.

_“Yes! No! I don’t—I don’t know! Can you just help?”_

_“It will take a few minutes.”_

_“Then what the Hell am I supposed to do with him until then?!”_

_“Distract him.”_

_“Distract him with what?”_

_“You are a smart man. I’m sure you will figure something out.”_

◇

_“This is all your fault.”_

No.

 _“You,_ Edward Nashton _, are the reason I’m dead.”_

No.

 _“It is all. Your._ Fault.”

◈

“No!” Edward shouted, looking up to see Riddler staring at him.

_“Ed?”_

“It’s not my fault. It can’t be,” Ed whispered.

_“What’s not your fault?”_

“Dad, he—It’s not my fault he died...Is it?” he met Riddler’s gaze.

~*~

“Ed!” Oswald shouted in a panic.

Jim pushed him out of the way.

“Excuse me, but what the _Hell_ do you think you’re doing?” he spat.

Jim ignored him. “Nygma, open the door.”

Lucius chimed in with a sure, calming voice, “Don’t do anything rash, Ed. Just open the door. We are only here to help you.”

~*~

Riddler flickered out of his view. Ed had no idea where he went.

_“He did it to hurt you, you know.”_

Ed turned his head to see Riddler leaning on his old dresser.

“What?”

 _“He died,”_ Riddler said, words clear and crisp, but anger tinged his otherwise emotionless voice, _“To cause you pain. That was his goal.”_

“What are you talking about? That is absurd. It’s—”

“Eddie,” a familiar voice echoed from behind him. Ed turned around, slowly, fighting against shock and fear and hope. He gasped as he saw the figure standing behind him. Dark hair framed an angular, but still traditionally feminine face. Her sharp, high cheekbones were dusted with freckles over her glowing skin, golden from time spent in the sun. Her cheeks were full and her green eyes sparkled, unlike the last time he had seen her.

“Mom?” Ed breathed in shock.

“I’ve missed you so much, darling,” joyful tears began to brim her eyes—fresh dew blanketing a meadow at dawn.

“Mom!” he repeated, rushing towards her and capturing her in a tight hug, suffocating, but not stifling, from all the love poured into it. “I—I—All this time, I thought you were dead. But you’re here,” Ed’s voice quivered with emotion as he pulled back to look at the face of his mother, before diving back in to embrace her once again, “You’re really here!”

“I’m here.”

“Please don’t leave me,” he cried, burying his head into her shoulder, a puddle of tears darkening the pale blue shirt beneath him, “Please stay.”

“I’m right here, Ed. I’m here.”

~ * ~

“Ed! Ed! Open the damn door!” Oswald shrieked.

Jim was getting a headache—honestly, he was surprised he hadn’t developed one earlier—and the stress of Lee’s earlier text and having to explain this _whole situation_ to her later wasn’t helping. Nor were the incessant banging on the door and the yelling next to his ear. “Penguin, can you try something else?”

“What do you suggest, Jim?!” Oswald snapped, whirling on him with barely-restrained fury and unrestrained annoyance.

“I don’t know. Maybe...not shouting?”

Oswald huffed, “Fine.”

~ * ~

“How?” Ed breathed, after releasing his mother from his embrace.

“ _‘How’_ what, Edward?” she asked, a soft smile graced her features.

“You learned how to pronounce the English _w,”_ he said, surprised. Ed couldn’t remember a time when she had pronounced his full name correctly, always saying _‘Edvard’_ instead. He knew that was why she almost always called him _‘Ed’_ or _‘Eddie’_. “When did you learn? Have you been taking English classes?”

She was quiet for a moment, casting an uncomfortable glance towards the spot Riddler, who was still present but staying completely quiet, was occupying. It almost seemed as though the two of them were having a silent conversation. But that was impossible. Only Ed could see Riddler.

“Em...Not exactly,” his mother answered, a quiet uncertainty wavering beneath her words, “It’s just—I have picked up the language better.”

“Oh! Right! When—how did you survive? How long have you been here?” he asked, his joy overshadowing any confusion or anger.

“It’s—” she laughed a little stiffly, “It’s a rather long story, Eddie. We can discuss it later. I just want to see you for now. To see you happy.”

“I am,” Ed replied, tears of joy welling up in his eyes as he rushed forward to wrap his arms around her once again, “I am so unbelievably _happy,_ Mom.”

~ * ~

“Edward, will you please come out?” Oswald wheedled from behind the door, “Or at least unlock the door?”

~*~

“I love you,” Ed whispered, tucking his head into her shoulder.

~*~

“What about your lock-picking kit?” Jim suggested.

~*~

“You have to meet Oswald!” Ed exclaimed, pulling back from his mother excitedly.

~*~

“That won’t work on this kind of lock,” Lucius supplied as Oswald gave Jim an exasperated glare.

~*~

“Eddie, I don’t think—”

~*~

“Should I shoot the lock?” Jim offered.

~*~

“Mother, you’ll love him so much! He’s...my best friend. He’s—”

~*~

“You have your gun on you?” Lucius inquired, both Oswald and himself looking at Jim, surprised.

Jim nodded.

“How do you plan to use it without risking shooting Ed?” Oswald snapped.

~*~

“Ed, I really don’t—”

She looked uncomfortable, repeatedly glancing back towards the dresser nervously.

“Mom, I promise you, he is amazing. He won’t tell anyone about you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m sure he won’t. It’s just—”

“Mom! Please,” Ed begged.

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she nodded. “Okay.”

Ed smiled, elated. He rushed to the door, unlocking it and swinging it open.

~*~

The door suddenly swung open, revealing Ed, smiling manically despite the fact that his eyes looked like he had been crying.

“Oswald!” Ed beamed, grabbing onto him and practically shoving him into Ed’s room, “You don’t—It’s wonderful! I saw—and she—And she’s here! She’s here, Oswald!”

Oswald had no clue what was happening. Ed’s words were barely coherent, mumbled and lacking any and all context. He just let Ed usher him into the room, trying to subtly check Ed for any sign of injury. Ed didn’t seem to be hurt, at least. They came to a stop in the middle of the room, and Oswald could _feel_ the enthusiasm drain away from Ed.

“I—I don’t—I don’t understand,” Ed muttered. “This...doesn’t...I don’t understand.”

Oswald turned to face him. “What’s going on, Ed? What don’t you understand?”

“She was just here, but now...she isn’t.”

“Who was here?”

“My mom.”

Oswald froze. He couldn’t even breathe for a moment.

“Your mom?” he echoed in a barely there squeak, as he searched Ed’s eyes for a sign of...something.

“Yes!” Ed snapped.

“Okay...So, when you saw your mom...what did she say? How did you see her?” Oswald asked carefully.

“She was here, Oswald,” Ed said, eyes boring into him.

“I’m sure she was, Ed,” Oswald cautiously replied.

Suddenly, Oswald found himself nearly lifted off the ground as Ed yanked him up by the lapels and walked him towards the wall simultaneously.

“Don’t look at me like that, Oswald. She was here,” Ed growled dangerously, before yelling, “Don’t you _dare_ look at me like I’m crazy. That was _real!”_

~*~

“Edward!” Lucius half-shouted when he walked into the room to see that Ed had Penguin pinned to the wall and looked about ready to kill the man if he made one wrong move.

He and Jim rushed over to pull Ed off of the man. Ed kicked and struggled, managing to wriggle out of their grasps and backing away so there was no one between him and the door. Lucius slowly approached him.

“Ed, everything is alright.”

“No!” Ed shouted, “Nothing is alright! He doesn’t believe me, but I saw her. She was here! It was her! My mother was here. I am not—that was not—it—it—the—no—I—”

“Today has been a lot to deal with. Perhaps we should return to the hotel and try to come back tomorrow. That way you have some time to process everything. Does that sound reasonable?” Lucius appeased.

Ed’s jaw clenched, he looked between the three men with an irate glint in his eye.

“Ed?” Jim questioned.

Ed’s whole body tensed as he glanced around the room. Then, he suddenly turned and _sprinted_ out of the room. Lucius darted after him as quickly as his legs would take him, but Ed was already halfway down the stairs by the time he got through the door of Ed’s bedroom. 

Lucius rushed down the stairs, half expecting to see the front door open and Ed commandeering their only means of transportation. Instead, he saw Ed crouched over in front of the coffee table in the living room clutching his head.

“Ed?” Lucius asked, looking at the man stooped over in front of him with concern as he took slow, measured steps closer to him.

Ed stiffened, straightened a bit, and looked up to meet his eyes with a penetrating gaze—Only...that wasn’t Ed. There was something about his eyes that was just...different. He smirked at Lucius, answering in a deep, rumbling tone, “Yeah, not anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's sticking with this and leaving such kind and supportive comments. This year, especially the past couple months have been very difficult for me, and even just seeing a nice comment can help make the rough days a little better, so an extra thank you to all of those lovely people who have left such sweet and encouraging comments.
> 
> I also know it's been forever and I'm sorry. Real life does come first though, and I've been having issues with accessing the archive, though those seem to be resolving? Hopefully? Anyway, I'm hoping to be able to update more regularly soon.
> 
> Also, lastly, if it wasn't clear, Ed did not actually harm himself in this chapter. I think it's clear, but just in case, he's fine. It's just a little [The Genius Next Door](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18823168/chapters/44666518) reference mixed in with a break from reality.


	19. Secrets

“Riddler?” Oswald asked, pushing past the others to get closer to him.

“The one and only,” Riddler replied with a devilish smile as he stretched his arms out to either side, gesturing along his body as though he were unveiling an exquisite piece of art.

Oswald walked right up to the taller man and slapped him across the face. 

_“Ow!”_ Riddler yelped.

“Where the _Hell_ have you been?! Ed has been losing his mind since you left! How could you do this to him? I thought you were supposed to _protect_ him!” Oswald shouted shrilly, fury and disappointment drenching his words.

Riddler stood up straight and stepped closer to the Penguin. He reached up and gently stroked the kingpin’s cheek in a gesture far too intimate for Oswald’s, and their current company’s, taste. 

_“Relax,_ Ozzie. I’m here now. Ed’s getting some time to unwind, take a break. That’s good for him,” Riddler purred, almost a whisper, as he cupped Oswald’s chin with his other hand.

Oswald drew in a tense, shuddering breath as he forced himself to stay still and not hit the man in front of him square across the face again. He grit his teeth and answered with a faux-pleasant smile, “Yes, I agree. It is. It also would have been nice for him if you had let him rest _sooner.”_

“I did.”

“Oh, _right._ You did. For half an hour. How kind of you,” Oswald deadpanned.

“Berating me for something I had no control over hardly feels fair, Oz,” he murmured. Riddler leaned in and brushed his lips over Oswald’s ear. “You _did_ miss me? Didn’t you?” he whispered, a devious taunt, partially covered by a mask of disingenuous offense, as he brought his hand around to the small of Oswald’s back and drew him closer, “Because if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you weren’t excited to see me.”

That was too much for the Penguin. Far too uncomfortable with the sudden PDA—especially considering which other people, specifically, were in the room—and angry with the apathetic attitude Riddler had towards the whole situation, he slapped Riddler’s arms and jerked away. _“First_ of all, I am hardly berating you. And, second, what do you mean you didn’t have control over it?”

“Oh, _Oswald._ I thought you knew me better than that,” Riddler chided, “I’m not the only one up here.” He tapped his temple with his forefinger, “I would never voluntarily abandon Ed like that...Sure, I might leave for a couple of days, let him cool down and what have you, but I wouldn’t desert him.”

“What are you talking about?” Penguin demanded.

“Riddler?” Lucius interrupted.

_“Foxy_. How can I help you?” Riddler replied, turning to him with a wolfish grin. Oswald had honestly forgotten about the others in the room for a moment as he was trying to make sense of what Riddler meant by ‘voluntarily.’ Judging by the grimace he saw on Jim’s face, Oswald had a feeling the Commissioner was rather uncomfortable with Riddler being in the driver’s seat.

“Are you and Ed the only ones?” Lucius asked.

The way Riddler’s smile grew scared Oswald. It meant he knew something, something that no one else knew and something that no one else would want to hear.

“Whatever do you mean?” Riddler replied slyly.

“You know what I’m talking about, Riddler,” Lucius shot back.

“I _did_ see an _old friend_ while I was away. I also became better acquainted with someone I’d only met in passing.”

“What is he talking about?” Jim asked, clearly unnerved.

“I’m so glad you asked!” Riddler spun to face the whole room at once, smiling wide and clearing his throat dramatically, ever the showman—  
“One whole split apart,   
Though it was never truly whole at the start.   
I exist to lock away the pain,   
Holding fragments of a past you never wish to regain.   
Helper, healer, friend, foe;  
Unite together or simply let go.  
A fitful coexistence  
Might offer the path of least resistance.  
I’ll protect you from prying ears and eyes.  
Your face, the mask of my disguise.  
What am I?” 

“Alters,” Lucius answered firmly.

“Correct!” Riddler bellowed, clapping his hands delightedly, before adding with a smug grin, “Though, can you call them alters if they never get to come out and play?”

“There are _more?”_ Oswald was astonished. Even when he was reading about dissociative identity disorder, Oswald had never considered the possibility of there being anyone other than Ed and Riddler; he thought it was those two, and that was it.

“Do they have names?” Lucius inquired, ignoring Oswald’s shocked outburst.

“Well, there is a _lovely_ lady named Styx. I’ve met her before, but we hadn’t gotten the chance to _really talk_ until recently. Get to know each other and what have you. At least, not mutually.”

Oswald, Lucius, and Jim all looked at each other. They could see the others were panicking internally; none of them had any idea what they were supposed to do in this situation. Was it an invasion of privacy since _Ed_ wasn’t the one sharing this information?

“Anyone else?” At least Lucius was able to feign some degree of comfort with this; Oswald was immeasurably grateful for the man for the _first_ time in his life...Well, that wasn’t exactly true, as the memories of just how _many_ times he’d thought that in the past day obnoxiously came to the forefront of his mind, but he had no interest in admitting that to anyone else—or himself—and was trying desperately to pretend it was true.

“Yes—” Riddler started, before glancing at the mirror and rolling his eyes, “Cool it, Sweater Vest.” Everyone looked at each other in confusion for a moment, unsure what was going on and what to do about it—if there was anything they should do. “Do you have a problem with the fact that there’s a _girl_ in your head, Eddie?” Riddler mocked, still looking at the mirror. That’s when Oswald realized what was happening. He nodded to signal the others that he knew how to handle this, while Riddler continued speaking to his reflection, “It kind of sounds like you do.”

~ * ~

Edward appeared in the mirror across the room. Of course he _had_ to show up now.

_“There are_ more _people in my head?!”_ he shrieked.

“Cool it, Sweater Vest,” Riddler quipped back.

_“Wait._ Wait. _She? There’s a_ she _in my head?!”_ Ed seemed completely panic-stricken, eyes wide and breaths ragged.

_“Do you have a problem with the fact that there’s a_ girl _in your head, Eddie?”_ he ridiculed.

_“No!”_ Ed snapped defensively, _“No. I just—I...It’s—”_

“It kind of sounds like you do.” Riddler watched as Ed opened and closed his mouth pathetically. He was happy to see the effect this was having on Ed. Serves him right for barging in where he wasn’t wanted. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to show up uninvited?” Riddler continued, “Especially when you aren’t welcome.”

_“You did that! All the time! What? So, when_ you _do it, that’s_ fine, _but when_ I _do it, it’s_ rude?” Ed retorted.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Riddler stared down his reflection, daring Ed to fight back with a fire in his eyes. Edward stared right back.

“Riddler?” Oswald’s voice broke through the intense staring contest only Riddler and Ed could truly see, “Is Ed here?”

Riddler spun on his heel, plastering an obviously fake smile across his face as he answered with a sarcastic sneer, “Gee, Ozzie! How’d you ever figure _that_ one out?”

“Can he hear me?”

Riddler looked over to the mirror, “Can you?”

_“Yes,”_ Ed mumbled after a minute under Riddler’s condescending glare.

“He can,” Riddler confirmed, facing Oswald once again.

~ * ~

Oswald took a few steps towards the mirror, looking at it with a kind smile. “Ed, if it is alright with you, we want to ask Riddler about some of his experiences while he was...gone. If you feel like that is an invasion of privacy, we don’t have to do it. But, if you do want us to do it, or if you can understand why I believe we need to and are okay with that, I think it might be best for you to check out for a little bit while we talk to him. I don’t...I don’t want to ruin anything by having you learn something you aren’t ready to know about...okay?”

Oswald stepped back, glancing back and forth between Riddler and the mirror. When Riddler shifted his gaze to the mirror, Oswald opted to keep his eyes locked on the man instead of his reflection. After what felt like an hour of tense silence, though was likely no more than a few minutes, Riddler turned back to the group. “He’s gone.”

“He’s gone?” Jim repeated, clearly unable to grasp what that even meant.

Riddler ignored him, focusing his attention solely on Oswald. “It’s sickening how much he trusts you.”

Oswald gave a self-satisfied smirk. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should,” Riddler replied, returning Oswald’s deviously smug grin, then turned theatrically towards the others. “Alright! You all have secured me for a private show,” he winked at Jim, who blushed furiously, causing Oswald to stifle a laugh, “And I know you have questions. So...ask away.”

“Um…” Lucius coughed, drawing everyone’s attention towards him and shifting uncomfortably, “I still don’t know why we are here.”

Riddler grinned and eyed Lucius with a roguish gleam in his eye as he prowled closer to the man. Oswald watched Lucius tense as Riddler stepped into his space and stroked a hand along his chest teasingly. Riddler stopped at the man’s tie, taking it in his hands and using it to draw the other close, uncomfortably close.

“You came all the way here to help out, and you don’t even know why you came?” Riddler asked, innocent tone belied by the predatory smile and wolfish shine in his eyes.

“Yes,” Lucius answered, face composed but voice audibly shaken, try as he might to hide it.

Oswald tried not to feel jealous as he looked at the two. Riddler was just doing this to avoid giving too much away about their relationship. It would only be logical for him to treat everyone similarly to how he treated Oswald if he didn’t want them to get suspicious. But Riddler didn’t have to touch Oswald like that _in view_ of others! If he hadn’t, Riddler wouldn’t need to do this. And, _God,_ did Oswald resent him acting like that with _Lucius Fox._

Riddler leaned in even closer, speaking into Lucius’ ear in a purr Oswald could just barely make out.

“Wow. Such a gentleman.” He pulled away from an ill at ease Lucius, announcing to the room, “Perhaps chivalry isn’t dead after all.” He released the man’s tie, stepping back and looking at Oswald expectantly, “While I would _love_ to answer your question, Lucius, I’m not entirely sure why we’re here either.”

Oswald was carefully crafting a suitable answer when Jim broke the silence...rather indelicately.

“Ed thinks he may have murdered his father.”

_“What the Hell, Jim!”_ Oswald shouted.

Quickly, Oswald’s eyes flicked towards Riddler. The look on his face was...hard to read. There was a slight furrow in his brow, eyes hard and calculating, before it disappeared, his features smoothing out. A spark of something, gone as quickly as a flash of lightning.

“Is that so?” Riddler asked, cooly, ignoring Oswald’s outburst.

“Yes,” Jim affirmed, meeting Riddler’s eyes. He was stiff, body slightly closed off as though he was preparing for Riddler to attack him.

“Hmm,” Riddler hummed, stalking closer to Jim and stopping no more than a foot away from him. “And why would Ed share that concern with... _you?”_

“I never said he was the one who told me,” Jim defended.

Riddler gave a taut, disingenuous, and mildly threatening smile, closing his eyes and exhaling forcefully through his nose. He looked at Jim, something dangerous in his expression, as though there was an anger was lying just behind the impassive mask, waiting for something to set it free. 

“You might not have said Ed was the one to tell you, but it was him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Is this really how you want to spend your time? In an argument that does not matter? In an argument that you will lose?” Riddler questioned, a menacing amusement in his eyes and a callous grin stretching across the face.

“No,” Jim admitted quietly, breaking eye contact for the first time and looking at the floor.

“I hate to ask this, but _did_ Ed kill his father?” Lucius interrupted.

Riddler’s head snapped towards Lucius.

“No.”

His voice was strong, sure, but his eyes held a softer gleam, a...sadness within them.

“I don’t know that we need to have this particular discussion right now—” Oswald started, eager to change the topic of conversation until they were no longer in a place with someone who could _arrest_ Riddler.

Lucius ignored him, making Oswald fume, as he asked, “Did you kill him?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?” Jim piped in.

“Positive.”

A strained silence enveloped the room for far too many seconds as Jim and Riddler glared at each other. Surprisingly, Riddler broke their staring contest first, smirking.

“Perhaps,” Riddler said, “I’d be more comfortable talking about my experience over the past few weeks with someone who _doesn’t_ think I’m capable of patricide.” He looked pointedly at Oswald.

“Oh...Of—of course,” Oswald stuttered.

“Jim and I could step out for a moment while you discuss,” Lucius offered, ever the courteous one.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Riddler drawled, an insincere concern tinging his voice, “Oswald and I can go upstairs and chat. Make yourselves at home,” he offered, voice dripping with mockery as he headed towards the stairwell, Oswald taking a minute to shake himself into action and follow behind him.

They walked into Ed’s childhood bedroom, the door mostly closed but left open just a crack in case Oswald needed to call for Lucius or Jim. Oswald looked around the room. He had the strange feeling of being in a museum exhibit, a place stuck in time, preserved indefinitely in a singular state. It was eerie. There were books on the shelf, a clock on the wall, even a calendar hung on the back of the door from a year more than a decade in the past, plans neatly penned in for each day. If it weren’t for the dust and the chilling silence of the home—if one could even call it a home—it wouldn’t be surprising to learn someone were living here now.

“A prison of normalcy.” Riddler broke the silence with his uncanny ability to know just what Oswald was thinking, “Or, at least, the appearance of it.”

“It’s strange,” Oswald conceded.

“Frankly, I’m surprised no one has looted it yet,” Riddler said, hands in his pockets as he took sure, steady steps, head swiveling as he surveyed the room.

“Is it just like you left it? Or do you remember?”

Riddler said nothing, but gave a small nod, eyes distant as he took a seat on the twin bed, patting the space beside him in an indication for Oswald to join him. When Oswald sat down, he put a hand on Riddler’s back, rubbing up and down in a friendly, somewhat mindless manner as they sat in companionable silence for several minutes.

“What was it like?”

“What was what like?” Riddler asked, moving to lean on Oswald, resting his head atop the shorter man’s lightly.

“Being gone the past few weeks.”

Riddler straightened, sitting up and moving further away from Oswald. “What was it _like?_ It was Hell.”

“I’m sorry, dear. You know I need to ask.”

“Do you, really? Do you really _need_ to know about this?”

Riddler’s eyes were so hurt, so vulnerable. His jaw was clenched, his lip was quivering, ever so slightly, and his face was pinched in a way that it always was when he was sad and didn’t want others to know, but just couldn’t quite hide it.

Oswald slid closer to him, taking Riddler’s hand in between his own. “Riddler, I know this is hard for you. I understand that you don’t want to talk about it.” Riddler jerked his hand out of Oswald’s grasp but didn’t move away. “I know this is a lot, and I’m sure that you think not talking about what happened while you were...gone, about why we are here, about everything, is going to save you the pain, but, I promise you, it’s not. You need to tell me about anything you’re ready to talk about. If you can’t talk about everything yet, I understand, but you need to tell me _something_. So I can help you, and Ed.”

In a flash, Riddler was nearly pressed against him, a malevolent sneer pulling at his features, features which were too close to Oswald’s face for comfort.

“I think you forget how this relationship works, _Ozzie,”_ Riddler snarled, tangling his long fingers in the hair at the back of Oswald’s head and pulling, leaving Oswald’s neck craned awkwardly to look up at him. “You don’t tell me what to do. You don’t tell me what I’m _thinking._ That may work with poor little Eddie, but you and I, we don’t do that.”

“You’re right,” Oswald gulped, finding it a slight struggle to breathe, “I’m sorry.”

Riddler smiled a bit, seemingly pleased with the apology—though not pleased enough to release Oswald’s hair from his grip.

“Very good,” he murmured, leaning in to let his lips brush Oswald’s ear lightly. “You do not tell me what I need, because I am my own person. I am not Edward Nygma or anyone else. I am me. _The Riddler._ And I know _exactly_ what I want.”

He made his point by leaning down and placing a vigorous, sucking kiss on Oswald’s neck. Oswald stiffened. Riddler, naturally, noticed.

Moving up from Oswald’s neck, Riddler murmured against his jaw, “You’re so tense.”

Riddler kissed Oswald’s jaw, his free hand finding its way around Oswald’s waist and pulling him closer.

“I just...We’re a bit exposed here,” Oswald whispered, “Anyone could walk in.”

He could feel Riddler smirk against his jaw as the grip on his hair loosened, no longer forcing Oswald’s neck back. Riddler’s hand was still at the back of Oswald’s head, as if he was waiting for any reason to grab him again.

Pulling back to look Oswald in the eye, he whispered, “And why does that matter?”

Riddler’s grin suggested he knew exactly why that mattered.

“Because Ed...And—and besides, it would be indecent.”

Riddler chuckled.

“I don’t plan on doing anything too indecent, my dear...Unless...that’s a suggestion?” Riddler’s expression turned to mixture of smug and mischievous and he leaned back in close to Oswald’s ear. “Because if it’s a suggestion,” he purred into Oswald’s ear as he shifted, moving to straddle Oswald’s lap and draping his arms over Oswald’s shoulders, “I suppose I could be amenable.”

Oswald turned beet red.

“It—it—it most certainly is not!” Oswald sputtered indignantly.

“Mmm,” Riddler hummed against the skin where Oswald’s ear met his jaw, before moving to hover just above Oswald’s mouth, his breath tickling Oswald’s lips, “That’s a shame.”

“Is it?” Oswald breathed, barely a whisper.

Oswald’s eyes widened, and he looked up into Riddler’s deep brown eyes. This man was far too beautiful and far too aware of that fact. Oswald desperately wanted to kiss him as he looked into those dark eyes and felt the tempting puffs of air coming from Riddler’s lips, just millimeters away from his own. It was like a magnet was pulling him closer and closer towards the man on his lap.

“Mm-hmm. A terrible shame,” Riddler mumbled, closing the already scant space between their lips to rest his lips against Oswald’s—not pressing or even really kissing, just resting against Oswald’s mouth. The contact was infuriatingly light. 

Oswald grew impatient—a fact Riddler was very aware of, judging by the smile that kept tugging at the edges of his lips—and gave in. He brought his hands up to Riddler’s cheeks, cupping them and pulling him into a demanding kiss. Fortunately for Oswald, Riddler didn’t seem to have any interest in continuing to play coy once they were kissing. Despite initiating the kiss, Oswald quickly found himself relinquishing control, not unhappily, to Riddler.

After what must have been several minutes, Riddler pulled away with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Now _there_ is the welcome back I was looking for,” Riddler said huskily, “I’ll accept it...even if it came later than expected.”

Oswald froze, expression falling as he shot Riddler an irritated glare while Riddler just stared back at him, gloating.

“You can’t be serious,” Oswald huffed, annoyed that Riddler would do this, risking getting them caught, just to get the reception he wanted, “You are _such_ a jacka—ahh…”

Oswald cut himself off with a whine when he felt Riddler sucking the side of his neck as one hand tenderly stroked his chest and the other kneaded his thigh possessively. He felt Riddler smirk against his neck before Riddler’s tongue darted out to lick all the way up his neck to behind his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Riddler teased, not sounding remotely sorry as he nipped lightly at the skin behind Oswald’s ear, “You were saying?”

“You’re an ass,” Oswald groaned.

“Hmmm,” Riddler hummed, not quite denial but just shy of agreement—and not lacking in smugness—before slowly and thoroughly mouthing where his lips were pressed against Oswald’s skin, making his way back to the front of Oswald’s neck with warm, open-mouthed kisses that made Oswald gasp. “Am I?” he questioned breathily, softly, pulling back from Oswald’s skin and meeting his eyes as he reached up to delicately stroke the back of his fingers along Oswald’s neck. 

“We can’t do this right now,” Oswald whispered, “We actually came up here for a reason, remember?”

“Can’t do what? I’m just kissing you,” Riddler purred, “I missed you. Can you blame me?” He leaned in, wrapping his arms around Oswald’s shoulders and nuzzling his head into his neck.

“Riddler, I’m serious,” Oswald snapped, trying to keep his head straight. He couldn’t believe he’d actually let himself get distracted in _this_ situation.

Riddler’s body tensed, and he pushed himself off of Oswald, flopping to sit on the bed beside him. He huffed and stared stonily at the wall.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Oswald appeased, “I am simply trying to find out anything that could help with the current situation that you might not be comfortable disclosing in front of Jim and Lucius.”

“Sure.”

Oswald couldn’t discern whether that was a ‘sure, go ahead,’ or a passive-aggressive ‘fine,’ type of answer. He decided to at least pretend he thought it was the former.

“Can you tell me anything about what’s happening with you and Ed?” he pressed.

“I can.” Riddler’s tone was clipped. His gaze was fixed pointedly at the wall, refusing to look at Oswald.

Oswald tried not to roll his eyes. Tried not to upbraid him. Riddler could be so childish sometimes.

_“Will_ you tell me anything?”

Riddler whirled around on him, eyes blazing in a way Oswald wasn’t prepared for.

_“Why?”_ he snapped, “Because you want to help _Ed?”_

Oswald looked at him, baffled by the contempt in his tone.

“Yes,” Oswald replied evenly, carefully, “I think we both want to help him...Don’t we?”

Riddler scoffed, laughed bitterly, and turned his head away from Oswald once again, crossing his arms. Oswald’s brow furrowed. He was accustomed to the occasional bouts of juvenile behavior from the man beside him, but that was usually in situations with far less serious consequences—or, at least, what _they_ would consider less serious consequences—than this. This was petulance, stemming from...what? Indignation? Jealousy? Impatience? A bid to get his way? Oswald couldn’t tell.

“Riddler?” He waited for an answer, hands clasped in his lap. When he didn’t receive any acknowledgement that he was heard, Oswald placed his hand on Riddler’s thigh and brought his free hand up to the other man’s chin, turning his head with it so Riddler had to face him. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Riddler clenched his jaw and his eyes focused up, towards the ceiling. After a long moment of fairly tense silence, Riddler finally spoke, shaking Oswald’s hands off of him.

“You want to know what’s wrong with me?” he asked, voice a low, dangerous growl.

“That’s not what I ask—”

“But it’s what you meant!” Riddler interrupted, nearly shouting, before dropping his voice to a quiet, accusatory rumble, “Isn’t it?”

Oswald stared at him, perplexed, but deciding that not answering would be the most effective way to get him to elaborate.

“I was kept a prisoner inside my own mind with no escape for _weeks._ I can’t remember a time I’ve been so powerless in the past five years! Then, I come here and find out that Ed has been telling a _cop_ that he thinks he killed Harold?! And I could have been dealing with it _for_ Ed if Styx hadn’t forced me to stay back with no knowledge of what was happening and no way to contact Ed,” Riddler seethed. “But I shouldn’t be surprised. I really shouldn’t. I’m always stuck with the job of cleaning up everyone else’s messes. I suppose I should be grateful I got to meet some of the people who’s messes I’m constantly cleaning up, but, frankly, I’m too mad to give a damn.”

“Who did you meet?” Oswald asked, placing a soothing arm around Riddler and looking up at him with pleadingly inquisitive eyes.

Riddler looked back at him blankly.

“Very well,” Riddler acquiesced, “I suppose you...deserve some sort of an explanation. But those two—" Riddler gestured towards the door, "— _do not._ You cannot tell Jim or Lucius unless I give you the okay. Are we clear?”

“As crystal.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am pretty new to writing fanfiction and greatly appreciate any feedback!
> 
> If you are interested in reading the full stories where a lot of these memories come from, you can check out the second and third works in this series!
> 
> Also, memories will not always be written in italics, but, since there is so much switching back and forth in this first chapter, I thought italics made it easier.


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